Comfort Object by Annabel Joseph Page A

his house. I don't know why he chose not to, and he didn't explain. I hoped that he was just too busy, and I had my own tasks to accomplish before we left, friends to contact, finances to put in order. Still, I waited to be summoned to his room every time he arrived at the house. I would have given anything on earth just to be ordered to suck his cock.
     
    So now, with his gaze all over me in the opulent, private dressing room, I found my breath growing short and my clit growing wet. When Madame finally left us to attend to another customer, Jeremy urged her to take her time. My pussy throbbed as he moved closer to me.
     
    I had on a rum pink bra with small, sexy stays cupping my tits and a matching waist cincher. An intricate garter belt held up silk stockings in the same dusky shade of pink. He didn't say anything in the way of preliminaries, just reached between my thighs and parted me, thrusting his fingers so deep inside that I nearly lost my balance. I clung to him, righting myself, and tried not to moan. He nuzzled me.
     
    “You're killing me, Nell.”
     
    Then I did moan as his fingers slipped out of my slick center to pinch and tease my hard, wet clit. If anyone were killing anyone, it was Jeremy.
     
    “Have you made yourself come since you left my bedroom?” he asked.
     
    “No, Jeremy,” I said, and I was glad I hadn't, because in my current condition I would have been unable to lie.
     
    “Good girl. I want you to come now.”
     
    Oh Jesus, how I ached to, but my mind flew to the flimsy curtain separating Jeremy and me from Madame and the other customers outside in the boutique.
     
    “You don't worry about that.” He stroked me, separating and probing my labia. I looked up at him, wide-eyed. “You just worry about doing as I ask.”
     
    “Yes, Jeremy,” I whispered.
     
    “Hold on to me. Put your hands on my shoulders if you think you're going to fall.”
     
    I reached for him, closed my fingers over his muscular shoulders. I could feel his arms move under my hands as he manipulated me. I was torn between running my fingers all over his shoulders and chest and giving myself up to the growing pleasure at my core. I pressed my forehead against the front of his sweater. “Jeremy.” My voice came out a whisper.
     
    “Come on.” I drew in a deep breath. I relaxed and pushed my hips against his fingers. “Yes, that's right,” he said. “More. I want you to moan.”
     
    I threw a wild look at the curtain, then turned pleading eyes on him.
     
    “I want moans, girl.” I recognized the obdurate expression already, knew he wouldn't bend. I buried my face in his chest and let the moans come.
     
    And with his fingers, he kept drawing me closer and closer to that terrifying edge of climax, the terrifying loss of control. I just didn't know if I'd be able to let go, here, in Madame's dressing room on Rodeo Drive with a curtain the only thing between us and the people outside. My quiet sounds rose in intensity. I shuddered against his front.
     
    “Do it. Obey me.”
     
    He stroked and fondled me so my hips moved and swayed of their own accord. His fingers slid over my clit, lubricated by the juices that, by now, soaked the garment I wore. My soft, urgent sounds were uttered against soft gray cashmere. I rode his broad hand spread between my legs. As my orgasm drew closer, my movements grew wilder, undisciplined.
     
    “Hurry,” his voice rasped in my ear, “or she'll return just as you're coming. Won't you look like a horny slut then?”
     
    I whimpered, and my clit pulsed. His fingers manipulated, scratched, probed. His other hand came around the back of my neck to draw my lips to his. He kissed me deeply, his fingers pressing even deeper inside me at the same time.
     
    “Oh.” I moaned into his mouth. “Oh God.”
     
    “Yes, be a good girl. Come for me. Now.”
     
    He pinched my nipple through the bra, once, twice, a third time. I wanted to come; I had to come. I knew I had to let