My Billionaire Boss Dared Me to Say No, So I Locked the Door novel · Chapter 3 of 24

Chapter 3: Terms

In the locked playroom on Astor Street Ingmar sets four terms, Bartek throws one back, and cuffs, a blindfold and edging follow; outside, his aunt's car is waiting.

The door on the fourth floor of the Astor Street house was black, and it opened before Bartek touched it.

"You are three minutes early," Ingmar said.

"You said not to be late."

"I said many things." He stood in the doorway in shirtsleeves, the waistcoat gone, his collar open and his cuffs turned back over strong forearms. "Come in. Lock it behind you."

Bartek stepped inside and turned the heavy bolt.

The room was long and warm and dim.

There was a dark wooden floor and a high padded bench covered in black leather.

One wall was hung with straps and cuffs and a row of canes, each on its own hook.

A bed stood at the far end under a window shuttered with slats, its frame fitted with steel rings at the head and the foot.

Everything was clean and ordered and plainly used.

Bartek looked at it, and his mouth went dry, and he lifted his chin.

"This is a lot of furniture."

"It's a small collection," Ingmar said.

"Do you do this with all your assistants?"

"No," Ingmar said. "I have never done this with an assistant." He walked past Bartek to a low table by the bench, where he had laid out a glass of water, a folded cloth and a pair of black leather cuffs. "Sit."

Bartek sat on the edge of the bench.

Ingmar stood in front of him with his hands behind his back.

For a moment he looked exactly like the man in the corner office.

"Four terms," he said. "I will say them once."

"I'll write them down."

"You will not." The corner of his mouth moved. "One. After nine, the door is locked and nobody on the other side of it exists. In the daytime I am Mr. Ekeberg and you are Mr. Wrobel, and the office does not suspect a thing."

"The office suspects a thing. Four board members heard you cough."

"The office suspects a cough." He did not blink. "Two. Whatever you want, you ask for aloud. I will not guess. I will not be asked to read your face."

"You read my face just fine on Friday."

"Friday I was lucky. Three. I will leave no mark that shows above a collar."

He held up a third finger.

"I have a board to face, and you have a name to keep. Four. Nobody knows."

"Nobody?" Bartek asked.

"Not your friends, not your flatmate. This house is not a thing you tell."

"Terms one through four are all about hiding."

"Yes," Ingmar said.

"Then I've got one." Bartek leaned back on his hands. "If I say stop, you stop, and nobody gets to be sulky about it."

"That was never in question."

"I'm saying it anyway. Out loud. That's term two, isn't it?"

Ingmar looked at him for a long beat.

Then he smiled, slow and real, the same smile that had undone Bartek on Friday.

"Yes," he said. "That is exactly term two."

He knelt and picked up the cuffs.

"Give me your wrists, Wrobel."

Bartek held them out, and the leather was cool and supple against his skin.

Ingmar buckled one, then the other, checking each with a finger under the strap.

"Tight?"

"No," Bartek said.

"Tell me when."

"I'll tell you when I want you to stop being so careful with me," Bartek said.

"Not tonight," Ingmar said, low. "Take your clothes off."

Bartek stood and undressed under that pale, steady stare.

Jacket, shirt, belt, the cheap grey trousers.

The room was warm, and his skin prickled anyway.

When he was bare, Ingmar walked a slow circle around him, once.

Bartek stood with his chin up and his wrists in front of him and his cock already filling.

"Lie back on the bench," Ingmar said.

Bartek lay on the cool leather, and Ingmar drew his arms above his head and clipped the cuffs to the rings in the bench.

He took the folded cloth from the table and shook it out.

It was black silk, a blindfold.

"Yes?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Say it," Ingmar said.

"Yes, sir. Put it on."

The silk came down over his eyes, and the world went out.

All Bartek had left was sound and skin.

The slide of a belt through loops.

The creak of the bench as Ingmar's weight settled beside his hip.

A hand, flat and warm, on his sternum.

"Breathe," Ingmar said.

Bartek breathed.

The hand moved down over his ribs, across his stomach, and stopped just short of his cock.

Bartek lifted his hips.

"No," Ingmar said. "Still."

"I'm still."

"You are not. You're a liar, Wrobel," Ingmar said.

"I'm very good at it, ask anyone."

The hand lifted away.

He heard Ingmar stand and cross the room, and he heard a small click.

Then music came on, low and slow, a cello playing something sad.

Bartek would have laughed if the room had not been full of the sound of a man taking his time.

Ingmar came back.

Fingertips traced the inside of Bartek's thigh, and he shook.

A mouth followed, hot and wet, a long, slow kiss on the tender skin beside his groin.

"Oh God."

"That is not my name," Ingmar said.

"Sir. Sir, please."

"Please what?" Ingmar asked.

"Touch me."

"Where?" Ingmar said.

Bartek's face burned under the silk.

He had been taken apart by this man's mouth and hands in one week, and still this was the hardest thing to say.

"My cock," he got out. "Put your mouth on my cock. Please."

"Good," Ingmar said, warm with approval. "Very good. That's what I need."

His mouth closed on the head.

Bartek's back arched off the bench.

Ingmar took him slowly, with a tongue that knew exactly what it was doing.

A hand wrapped around the base held him at the edge.

It was a long, perfect, wet drag of heat, and when Bartek got close and began to shake, the mouth left him.

"No," Bartek said. "No, no, don't."

"You'll come when I say."

"That's cruel."

"I'm known for it." Ingmar's thumb pressed under the head of his cock, and Bartek groaned. "Is it too much?"

"It's not enough."

"Good."

The mouth came back.

He was edged three times, four, until his thighs were slick with sweat and his throat was raw.

The cuffs rang against the rings with every pull.

Each time the mouth left him, a soft voice said, "Not yet."

Each time it returned, it was slower.

"Please," Bartek said at last, wrecked. "Mr. Ekeberg. Sir. I can't."

The voice did not change.

"You can. You're doing so well."

Bartek whimpered.

It was a sound he would have mocked in anyone else.

"You're beautiful like this," Ingmar said, close to his ear. "Tied down, begging. You have no idea what you look like."

"Then tell me."

"I'll show you later."

A hand lifted his knee and folded it up, and he heard the bottle of oil, and a slick finger found his hole.

It went in at once, because he was already open from Friday, and the second after it with barely a pause.

Bartek bore down on them and cried out.

"There," Ingmar said. "Do you feel how greedy you are?"

"Yes."

"Say it," Ingmar said.

"I'm greedy, sir. I want your cock. I want you inside me."

"Do you want to come first?" Ingmar asked.

"I want to come on you."

Ingmar's laugh was soft and unsteady.

The fingers withdrew.

The silk stayed over Bartek's eyes, and the bench shifted as Ingmar climbed on and knelt between his thighs.

A hand gripped his hip.

The blunt, hot head of him pressed against his hole and stopped.

"Look at me," Ingmar said.

"I can't. You blindfolded me."

"Then listen. I am going to give you this slowly, and you are going to take all of it."

He pushed in.

It was slow, an inch and a stop, an inch and a stop, and Bartek's fingers curled in the leather straps.

The stretch burned, and the burn became a deep, helpless fullness, and he cried out and tried to push down.

"Stay," Ingmar said. "Let me. Good. Good boy."

Bartek stopped breathing.

Nobody had ever said that to him.

It was ridiculous, a phrase for a dog or a child.

It went through him, hot and sweet, and his cock leaked on his stomach.

"Oh," he said, shaken.

"You liked that."

"Shut up."

"I'll say it again." Ingmar bottomed out, and held, and his voice shook. "Good boy. You're so good."

Bartek came undone from the inside.

He wept, a little, behind the silk, and he did not care.

Ingmar began to move.

Long, deep strokes at first, each one dragging over the place that made Bartek see white.

Then harder.

The bench creaked and the cuffs rang, and Ingmar's hand slid up to Bartek's throat and rested there, a heavy warm weight, not squeezing.

"Is this all right?"

"Yes," Bartek said.

"Tell me if it's not."

"Squeeze," Bartek said hoarsely. "Please."

The hand tightened, just a little, and his vision went to stars behind the blindfold.

He was fucked until he lost his words.

He lost the sentences first, and then the names, and at the end he was only a mouth saying yes, yes, yes.

"Come now," Ingmar said at last, rough, his thrusts faltering. "Now. Now."

He came so hard it hurt.

It tore out of him, hot streaks over his own chest, and he screamed into the dark.

Ingmar went rigid, and swore in Norwegian, and came deep inside him with a groan that sounded close to pain.

The room was quiet except for the cello.

A long time later the cuffs came off, and the blindfold, and Bartek lay blinking in the soft light.

Ingmar was bent over him with a warm cloth, wiping his stomach with slow strokes.

His eyes were very pale and very gentle.

"There you are," he said.

Bartek looked up past him, at the ceiling.

There was a smoke detector over the bench, a plain white disc with a green light.

Ingmar looked up too.

His eyes rested on it for an instant, and moved away.

"What?" Bartek said.

"Nothing." Ingmar kissed his forehead. "Stay. Sleep."

He did not stay.

At eleven he dressed, with his legs unsteady.

Ingmar walked him down four flights to the front door and put a hand on the lock.

"Thursday?"

"Nine," Bartek said.

He stepped out into the November cold.

On the curb in front of the house, a silver car sat idling with its lights off.

The rear window slid down.

A woman with a silver bob and a string of pearls looked out, and smiled at him.

"Good evening, Mr. Wrobel," said Hedvig Ekeberg.

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