Seeing his imminent reactions like this gives me an immense feeling of power. I open my mouth and slowly, very slowly, lean forward to take him in. He is quivering with anticipation, the pleasurable torture enhanced by my build-up, and I know he is not going to let it last much longer. I will need to increase the speed and intensity soon before he is the one who takes over control again by pushing me at the back of my head.

  Right now, I am in charge. At his mercy, of course. But still I am the one who is on the giving side. And I am enjoying it far too much.

  His moans grow louder as I wrap my lips around his hard cock and start sucking on it. Because I am all too aware of his impatience and the short amount of time given to me to do this, I make sure to accelerate my motions. I take him in deeper with every movement back and forth, sucking and worshiping him. My tongue travels along the lower side of his shaft, always making sure that I don't forget about his most sensitive spot close to the tip.

  He closes his eyes and moves his hips forward in a sudden, unexpected move that makes me gag when his erection hits the back of my throat. His size is impressive to begin with, but right now I feel as if he is growing even bigger between my lips.

  "Get up!" he orders. "Now!"

  I instantly stop what I am doing and rise to my feet, which is surprisingly hard when your hands are tied together.

  He helps me by basically pulling me up at my wrists.

  Without saying another word, he takes a step aside and pushes me closer to the window. I want to protest, but instead I find myself leaning forward, supporting myself with a window handle as he quickly ties my hands around it. Below me, I can see the city's rush hour traffic. Street lights will be turned on soon, as the sun is beginning to set over the city. I scan the windows of other buildings around us, most of them offices that are – hopefully – empty by now. But just as he said, most of the windows are reflecting too much for me to really see anything behind them.

  He bends me over a little more, pushing his hand on my lower back and reaching between my legs, signaling me to lift up my ass.

  "Remember, this is for me," he says. "You should do your best to look pretty for your Sir, don't you think?"

  "Yes, Sir," I breathe, intoxicated with arousal, even though he keeps talking to me as if I was his possession.

  I arch my back and lift up my ass as best as I can, knowing that it looks a lot prettier this way, even though it strains my back, especially because my hands are now above my head, the knots fastened around the handle.

  My tied hands are now my only source for support and stability. It puts a lot of stress on my wrists as I hang onto the handle, trying to please him.

  But all of that is forgotten when I can feel the tip of his cock teasing my entrance. I catch myself leaning backwards, arching my back even further as my entire body begs for him to fuck me.

  I can hear him chuckle behind me.

  "Good girl," he says, still teasing me. "My girl."

  I yelp when he shoves himself inside me with one single thrust. Every cock feels a lot bigger in doggy style position, but I have never felt this stretched before. Pain and excitement form a terrific team as he starts fucking me.

  He goes deep and rough from the beginning, foregoing any kind of easing in to it or giving me a chance to adjust to his remarkable size.

  "You're so tight," he comments. "And so fucking wet!"

  I blush. He grabs me at my hips, granting him even more control and giving way to deeper and stronger shoves. The rope around my wrists cuts into my flesh. It hurts, but the pain only increases the pleasure.

  I feel confined, at his mercy.

  Owned.

  I have never felt a stronger sense of belonging than what I am feeling now as Evan brutally fucks me from behind. The skin on my wrists feels more and more tortured as I lay eyes on a city far below me getting ready for after work relaxation.

  And maybe some of those who are not on their way yet can actually see me. Maybe there are people over there who are dreamily staring out their windows and what they see is a naked woman who is tied up and leaning against the window getting fucked mercilessly.

  As much as it frightened me at first, now the thought excites me. I actually hope there is someone out there whose eyes are glued on me.

  CHAPTER XVI

  Nicky

  Even after emphasizing many times that this second round is for him – and only for him – he reaches between my legs to play with my clit as he rams his massive erection inside of me from behind.

  All it takes is a few more shoves, his skillful fingers toying with my sensitive nub, and his authoritative words, his command ordering me to come. My breath is visible as a steamy imprint on the window in front of me as my orgasm takes control of me.

  I arch my back to the limit, taking it all in: Evan, the sheer pleasure of my climax, the view in front of me, my muscles clenching around him, and his throbbing cock as he follows me and finally finds his release.

  Our heavy panting fills the room as we remain immobile in our post-coitus daze. He leans over me, his softening cock still inside me, and grabs my boobs from behind, gently cupping them while he showers my upper back with kisses.

  "God, Nicky, seeing and hearing you come is the most beautiful thing in the world," he says huskily. "I can't get enough of it."

  I smile. "I thought this one was just for you?"

  "It was," he says. "But that doesn't mean I'd rob you of your climax. Your pleasure only adds to mine."

  He bends over to untie my wrists from the window handle. I had almost forgotten about them, but am painfully reminded of their confinement and the pressure that was put on them once Evan unties the knots.

  "Turn around," he says. My hands are free from the handle, but still bound together.

  I do as I am bid and turn around to him, now facing the open window with my naked behind. Something that would have made me shy just a few minutes ago, now it casts a cheeky smile on my face.

  "This might leave some marks," he says as he carefully starts to undo the knots securing my wrists. He sounds worried, but his face reveals undeniable pride.

  I grin at him. "I would like that."

  "Me, too," he says.

  I sigh with relief when my hands are finally free again. Sure enough, the rope has left some dark red stripes around my wrists. Most of it will fade, but I am sure that some will still be visible tomorrow, judging from how sensitive my skin typically is.

  Evan softly skims along the lines. It doesn't hurt at all. There is something comforting and healing about his soft touch.

  He lifts his eyes and looks at me. Lovingly – but also with a hint of naughtiness. It's easy to tell that there's something on his mind.

  "I like marking what is mine," he says, his eyes narrowing as he looks down at me.

  I raise my eyebrows, but before I get a chance to ask him what he is talking about, he leaps forward and grabs me, one hand on the small of my back, drawing me closer to him, and the other at my neck, tilting my head to the side.

  Realization hits me when his teeth sink into the pale skin of my lower neck again, just as before, when he punished me for interrupting and laughing at him.

  I don't see any reason why I deserve punishment now, but this bite might not be about that. I moan as he holds me tight, sucking and biting on my poor skin. He is rather careful at first, but his bite deepens just a little and the pain shoots through me like a knife cutting into my skin, I flinch and start to struggle within his arms.

  "Ah, stop! It hurts! Evan, it hurts!"

  Yet again, this only causes him to bite deeper and tighten his grip around me. He really wants to make sure that this one stays.

  I try to move the opposite way and gather all my strength to allow my body to relax in Evan's arms. And it does the trick.

  He withdraws, planting a little kiss on my cheek before he lets go of me. He holds my chin with two fingers and gently turns my head from left to right, checking the marks he has left on either side.

  "Beautiful," he certifies.

  I look up at him like a scared little animal. These bites are new. Marking me. His talk about wanting me to be his is new, too.

  I don't know what to make of it, but I cannot shake the feeling that he is right. This is where I belong. I want to be his. Even though I hardly know him. I am torn between confusion and fright – and the desperate desire to be his.

  "Let's get clean together," he suggests.

  He pulls up his pants, puts his arm around me and leads me back into the room. Still, I am the only one who is completely naked; he has not removed a single piece of clothing.

  "Didn't you say you don't have much time today?" I ask when we are inside the bathroom and he starts running the water in the tub. "How come we are still here?"

  He looks at me with a secretive smile. "Plans can be changed."

  "I hope I don't cause you any trouble?"

  "Silly girl," he says, pulling his pullover over his head. "You speak as if that was for you to decide."

  We wait for the giant bathtub to fill up with hot water and fragrant foam before climbing in and cuddling up inside it. I am lying in his arms, enjoying the instant relaxation of my sore muscles and the prickling of my tortured skin.

  "Your time must be limited, though," I argue. "Mr. big-time-investor-billionaire."

  "Turning sassy again, are we?" he whispers behind me, gently cupping my boobs beneath the surface of the water and mountains of foam.

  "I have weekends, too," he explains. "And the appointment I had today was not of any importance for me. It was easy to cancel."

  "How come you like working so much?" I ask.

  He squeezes my boobs and pulls me in closer before taking my nipples between two of his fingers. He pinches them just enough to send a sweet wave of delicate pain lancing through my chest. Damn, it feels good. I moan and lean into him – but I will not give in this time!

  "Are you trying to silence me with sex again?" I breathe.

  He laughs. "Did I silence you before?"

  "Yes!" I insist. "We were having a conversation, and then you –"

  "Don't blame me if you can't keep your legs together, beautiful," he interrupts. "We can talk now, I'm not doing anything to silence you, I promise. I just like touching you. A lot."

  "O-okay," I utter as he continues to massage my breasts. That seductive bastard.

  "You wanted to know why I like working so much," he says.

  "Yes."

  "What makes you think I do?"

  "Well," I say. "I mean, you must have worked your ass off at some point in the past to be where you are. I read the article, you know. Coming from nothing, self-made billionaire and all that... that doesn't happen without giving up your life and –"

  "Giving up my life?" he asks. "What exactly do you think I gave up?"

  "Well," I try to explain. "There cannot have been much time for you to do anything fun, anything creative. To breathe – to live."

  "I didn't stop living or breathing," he says. "I had an idea – and I followed up on that idea. It was a really creative process, actually. I created something. It was tough and you may say I worked hard, because there was a time where I didn't do much else. But it did not feel like work. And it certainly didn't feel like I stopped living. On the contrary."

  "But you didn't do much else," I object. "Just work, work, work – and for what? Why do you need so much money?"

  "Why do you naturally assume that I did it for the money?" he asks. "I had an idea, a passion, and I wanted my project to succeed. It was like a child to me. And it made me happy to see it grow and succeed and get other people involved. Like I said, it was a creative process."

  He lets go of my breasts and scoops some water with both of hands by lifting them up like a shovel. I realize too late what he is up to and let out an unhappy groan when he lets the water rain down on my face.

  "You say I have no time to breathe, to live, to create?" he says. "What have you created lately? What are you doing with your life, young lady?"

  I shake my head to get rid of the few drops of water that are still dripping from my forehead and blurring my view.

  "Well, I did not start a business," I say. "But there are plenty of things I have time for. And I'm free. I could go anywhere, anytime, because I'm not stuck at an office five days a week –"

  "What do you do for a living?" he interrupts.

  I clear my throat. I never realized until now that we never talked about these things. The kind of small talk topic that would usually come up at the very beginning of a date. Then again, are we really dating? It's not like we ever had a proper date in that sense. Dinner, movie, late night walks – that sort of thing.

  "Oh, I do work," I say, sounding a lot more defensive than I planned. "I have two jobs actually. One as a waitress at a restaurant –"

  "What restaurant?" he wants to know.

  "Doesn't matter," I say, partly to tease him by mimicking his reply to many of my questions, and partly because I don't want him to show up at my work place some day, either to intimidate me or free me by being my rich savior in shining armor. I think he would be capable of doing something like that.

  "All right then," he says. "What's the other job?"

  I hesitate for a moment. It might have been a bit too much to say that my few freelancing gigs are some kind of job. It is merely to bring in some extra cash.

  "I, erm, write stuff," I vaguely reply. "For other people. Ghostwriting."

  "Fiction or non-fiction?" he asks, not showing any kind of reaction, even though I feel as if I just stripped naked in front of him all over again. Not many people know that I freelance, not even Yuka.

  "Both," I reply. "Whatever is needed and whatever pays well, actually. I just picked up a few projects here and there."

  "Why?" he asks. "Why are you doing that? It doesn't sound like a reliable source of income."

  I roll my eyes.

  "Because it's not only about the money, believe it or not," I say. "I just like writing. And I am good at it. Copy-writing comes easy to me."

  "So, you're one of those dreamy wanna-be writers?" he asks.

  I frown. Exactly what I was afraid of. To be mocked again. Saying that you want to be a writer is probably the most cliché thing people can hear coming from a girl like me. It has been my life since I was twelve.

  So I just stopped saying it at a certain point.

  It's not true anyways. I am not a writer. And I don't want to be. Not in that sense. Writers are storytellers. Creative minds that come up with all kinds of plots, characters, and storylines that capture their readers’ minds.

  But I am not a storyteller. I have nothing to tell and no desire to. I have never been the kind of person who takes her MacBook to a café and starts writing her next 500-page epic, because she is overflowing with ideas and stories she wants to tell to the world.

  Writing just comes easy to me. It is something that I am good at and that I can do in a very efficient way. Taking over freelancing jobs for all kinds of ghostwriting projects was just a way for me to test the water. To see if I could actually be good at it on a professional level.

  But I have only done a handful of jobs and earned a few hundred dollars, nothing significant.

  "No," I reply. "No, I don't have a novel in me. No stories to tell. I feel like everything I could say has already been said before – and a lot better than I ever could."

  "You might be right about that," he says matter-of-factly.

  I free myself from his hug and turn around, frowning at him as the water swashes around us.

  "Why would you say that?" I ask in an annoyed voice.

  His words hurt me. I wouldn't admit it to him, but it felt like a stab in the heart. Does he really think that I am boring?

  He just shrugs. "All the narrow-minded biases you threw at me when we first met – they weren't exactly creative or unheard of, you know. Maybe it's the same when you try to tell a story."

  "I never tried," I object. "I just know that there is nothing there."

  "Oh," he says, raising his eyebrows. "Now that is even worse."

  "Not necessarily," I say. "I just don't want to waste my time on something that is fruitless."

  He gives me that stern look I have come to know. His dominant face that is usually followed by an order of some sort.

  And I react just as I always do – with silent anticipation. I wouldn't mind a third round. It would certainly be more fun than this uncomfortable conversation we are having right now.

  "I want you to do something for me," he says, his voice strong and deep, allowing for no objections.

  I love that voice, and I love that face. And my body is not shy at showing it. I tense up, looking at him with big, expectant eyes while my heart skips beats just at the thought of what might follow.

  "Yes, Sir," I say to show my awareness of the turn we have taken.

  I can see the hint of a smirk fleeting across his face in reaction to my words. So I am sensing this right. We will play again.

  We are about to act out the specific dynamic that this relationship is defined by.

  But not in the way I expected.

  CHAPTER XVII

  Evan

  "I want you to write something down until the next time we see each other," I tell her.

  She looks at me, tilting her pretty face to the side and arching her eyebrows quizzically. Drops of soapy water are running down the side of her face.

  "What?" she asks in her usual straightforward manner.

  "Two things," I continue. "One, I want you to think about what really motivates you to write. What do you eventually want to achieve with your writing? Do you think you could make a living from it? If so, how and–"

  "Listen," she interrupts me. "I know you mean well, but I don't need another college counselor who tells me that I just need to find myself and realize what my priorities are–"

  "I am not your counselor," I say. "I am your Dom. And if you want to be my sub, I want you to let me help you the way I can and want to."