The Heart of the Deal: Business, Bondage, Discipline and Desire

By Lisabet Sarai

All's fair in lust and business

Ruby Maxwell Chen, the lovely and ruthless CEO of a sprawling British business empire, has no qualms about playing dirty – very dirty. She’s happy to use sex to help her close a deal, especially when she’s the one on top. Ruby loves the game, and she expects to win. When she encounters the inexplicably charismatic American entrepreneur Rick Martell, though, she wonders if she hasn't finally met her match.

From the trendy clubs of London to the Hollywood Hills, Ruby and Rick compete for ownership of a strategic factory in Malaysia. As their struggle for dominance escalates and their mutual lust flares, they draw their employees and associates into their outrageous power games. The stakes could scarcely be higher, as Ruby and Rick play for the ultimate prize: a night of total physical surrender.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lisabet Sarai
• Release date: Jun 10, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463811948

Lisabet Sarai

I became addicted to words at an early age. I began reading when I was four. I wrote my first story at five years old and my first poem at seven. Since then, I have written plays, tutorials, scholarly articles, marketing brochures, software specifications, self-help books, press releases, a five-hundred page dissertation, and lots of erotica and erotic romance – more than fifty single author titles including eight full length novels, plus dozens of short stories in various collections. My credits include contributions to the Lambda winner Where the Girls Are and the IPPIE Best Erotic Book of 2011, Carnal Machines. My gay scifi erotic romance Quarantine won a Rainbow Awards 2012 Honorable Mention. I have also edited a number of acclaimed erotica anthologies. Currently I am responsible for the charity erotica imprint Coming Together Presents, which as of December 2014 has published six volumes by top erotic authors, supporting causes such as Amnesty International, Planned Parenthood, and the Multiple Sclerosis Association of America.I have more degrees than anyone would ever need, from prestigious educational institutions who would no doubt be deeply embarrassed by my chosen genre. Aside from writing, travel is one of my most fervent passions. I’ve visited every continent except Australia, though I still have a long bucket list of places I haven’t been. Currently I live in Southeast Asia with my indulgent husband and two exceptional felines, where I pursues an alternative career that is completely unrelated to my creative writing.For more information about me and my writing, visit my website (http://www.lisabetsarai.com) or my blog Beyond Romance (http://lisabetsarai.blogspot.com). Join my VIP email list here: https://btn.ymlp.com/xgjjhmhugmgh I also hang out at Goodreads, (http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/83387.Lisabet_Sarai) because I love the idea of a social network focusing on the love of reading. I’m not on Facebook, because I don’t trust it.

Book preview

The Heart of the Deal:

Business, Bondage, Discipline and Desire

Lisabet Sarai

© Copyright 2019 Lisabet Sarai

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental. All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years of age or older.

This book intended for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It contains substantial sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which may be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

Please note that this book was published previously, under the titles Ruby’s Rules and Nasty Business. This edition has been re-edited, revised and updated.

Contents

Pirate Blood

Extortion

Bitch Goddess

Negotiation

Match

Glass House

Bargains

Luna Rising

Mulholland Drive

Surrogates

Challenge

Scenes from a Weekend

Ancient Stones

Workout

Alliance

About the Author

Excerpt from Miranda’s Masks

A Final Message from Lisabet

To GCS. You know why.

Trademarks Acknowledgement

The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

BMW: Bayerische Motoren Werke Aktiengesellschaft

Cadillac: General Motors LLC

Chateau Lafite Rothschild: Chateau Lafite Rothschild Corporation

Disneyland: Disney Enterprises Inc.

Guardian: Guardian News & Media Limited

J. Paul Getty Museum: Trustees of the J. Paul Getty Trust

iPhone: Apple, Inc.

Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim: Angels Baseball LP Moreno Baseball, L.P.

MG Sports Cars: SAIC Motor Corporation Limited

Naugahyde: Uniroyal Engineered Products, LLC

Nautilus: Nautilus, Inc.

Scrabble: Hasbro Inc.

The Connaught: Maybourne Hotel Group

The Ritz: The Ritz Hotel (London) Ltd.

Universal Studios: Universal City Studios LLC

Volkswagen: Volkswagenwerk Aktiengesellschaft

Wall Street Journal: Dow Jones L.P.

Washington Post: WP Company LLC

Le Monde: La Vie-Le Monde

Pirate Blood

Ruby—London, Tuesday morning

They call me Ruthless Ruby. Not the most complimentary nickname, but I wear it with pride. I’ll go to any lengths to close a deal.

This London office is the heart of my empire. Seated here on my ergonomic leather throne, I review petitions and grant or deny boons.

My supplicant sits on the edge of his chair a few yards from me, on the other side of the Danish modern desk. The desk is no more than an oval of teak on a pedestal; with the light from the window, he can see my shapely legs and my Italian heels, if he should look in that direction. He is focused on my face, though, trying to read the success of his pitch in my carefully impassive expression.

I have already made a decision about this deal, but it amuses me to allow him to continue. There is something pleading about his tone, but I also detect an undertone of seduction.

He is attractive in a boyish sort of way, this lion of British industry. He has sandy hair, precisely styled, a cleft chin, lovely thigh muscles that ripple under his impeccably tailored trousers as he shifts nervously. He works out; I imagine him glistening with sweat in his singlet and shorts. He is serious, disciplined, a bit driven. He carries his cell phone with him to the loo.

Now he is talking a bit too fast, expounding on the merits of his proposal. He licks his lips occasionally. They look soft and vulnerable. I long to bite them.

He knows who I am: Ruby Maxwell Chen, young CEO of the powerful Maxwell Companies. Perhaps he has even heard what they call me in the bars where the execs and the wannabes gossip and network, or some of the stories behind the sobriquet. His mind knows these things, but he looks at me and he does not quite believe them.

I know what he sees: a pretty, diminutive Asian woman, calm and attentive, in becoming but conservative business attire. I know what he thinks: exquisite, gentle, pliant, submissive. Weak. Susceptible to his charm.

Yes, I am susceptible, but not in the way that he expects. I will invest in his new venture, not because of his blue eyes or his biceps, but because we will both make money. And my company will take a larger share than he has offered, and he will not be able to refuse, because he wants, he needs our participation.

Finally he finishes his spiel. His eyes search my face anxiously, seeking clues to my reaction. I smile slowly, realizing that I embody the stereotype of Asian inscrutability.

I am only half Chinese, of course. Mum was born and bred in Gloucestershire. She met my dad while she was in Malaysia on a botanical research trip, and fulfilled her reputation as rebellious and headstrong by marrying him. Though I was born in Kuala Lumpur, my life and education since then have been, at least on the surface, one hundred percent British. Tennis, dancing lessons, summer trips to Scarborough, degrees from Cambridge, and the London School of Economics. I am fluent in French, Italian, and German, but can just get along in Mandarin.

My father is—was—from an old family of Han merchants and traders. I have Malay blood, too. Dad’s grandfather on his mother’s side was a notorious pirate who terrorized ships in the straits of Malacca. I like to imagine that I am carrying on ancestral traditions as I maneuver and plunder my way through this cutthroat corporate world.

Dad built his financial empire here in the west: textiles, chemicals, energy, telecommunications, and now, high technology. Only in the last five years did he begin to expand out of Europe, to America and back into Asia. I was his apprentice, from the time I was in my teens. My business adversaries can testify that he taught me far more than finance and accounting.

My silence is making my unfortunate guest even more nervous.

I lean forward slightly. Under the desk, I part my legs and spread them wide. Mr. Dalton’s eyes grow round and his mouth falls open at the sight of the black lace garters against my pale skin and the jet triangle of hair framed between them.

Well, Mr. Dalton, I say finally, I need time to consider the details of your proposal. However, I am confident that we can come to some understanding.

Uh… I… He is rendered incoherent with confusion, embarrassment, and, I can clearly see, lust. Delicately, I part my silky fur to expose the damp pink folds of my cunt. I have been planning this for the past ten minutes, and I am wet with anticipation.

I believe that you have said enough, Mr. Dalton. I will give you my answer shortly. In the meantime, I would appreciate your removing your jacket, your trousers and whatever you have on underneath.

He wants to run, but my eyes hold him, my eyes and that moist, inviting chasm between my thighs. Now, I say, allowing a hint of sternness into my voice.

He complies, as I expect. My eyes give him no respite as he awkwardly sheds his clothes. He wears tight electric blue briefs that highlight every detail of his straining cock. The showy underwear is a present from his girlfriend, perhaps; he is too caught up in his ambitions to have a wife.

A blush is spreading over his fair complexion, and he hesitates to remove the briefs, though they hide nothing. I tap my pen on the desktop, feigning impatience. In truth, I love the suspense, the gradual, reluctant submission, the slow exposure of vulnerable flesh.

Finally, he pushes the garment down to his ankles and steps out of them. He begins to loosen his necktie.

Did I say anything about your tie? He stops and stands there, uncertainty etched on his even features, his hands hanging awkwardly at his sides. He looks silly, half-undressed and half-formal, and he knows it.

He is even better built than I had imagined. His skin is bronzed, lightly furred with blond down. His thighs are lean, sculpted by corded muscle. And his prick is, quite simply, magnificent, hugely swollen and pointing toward the high ceiling of my office.

Turn around, I tell him. His butt looks soft and white, contrasting with his tanned limbs, less muscular than I expect. My palms grow hot and my breathing is a bit ragged, despite my control. I could tan those buttocks well, if I chose.

With what I hope is maddening slowness, I push my chair back from the desk and rise to my feet. I am silent as I glide up behind him. The next thing he feels is my warm breath on his neck. Don’t move, I murmur in his ear. A small shudder shakes his frame, but otherwise he remains still. I’m pleased.

I tap my gold-plated pen against one butt cheek and then the other, the pen that I will use to sign the contract with him when I am finished playing. His flesh jiggles slightly. You are not as tight as you should be, Mr. Dalton, I say. Not enough squats and hamstring curls.

He swallows hard, but of course says nothing. What can he say, after all? He wants something from me, and he is beginning to understand what he will have to pay for it. With the rounded end of the pen, I trace the line of his crack. He feels the smooth, cool metal, and I know what he thinks and fears. Spread your legs, I say, feeding that fear for a moment. But I do not approach his anus, which I can see is clenched and tight. Instead, I reach between his thighs and give his scrotum a mild squeeze. He moans.

I told you, Mr. Dalton, that I think you have said enough, I say. Be quiet, or I will have to be harsh with you.

I circle around and see that his lips are pressed together, his eyes are wild, and his cock is harder than ever. I pull his chair, the one from which he delivered his pitch, over to me. Then I raise my leg, position my high-heeled foot on the seat, and slide my skirt up over my hips.

He can see everything. The lacy trim on my stockings. The jet garters stretched taut over my creamy flesh. The rosy lips of my sex peeking out from their fringe of curls, already soaked with arousal. A bead of moisture overflows from my cleft and traces a wet path along my inner thigh. His penis jerks involuntarily.

You understand, of course, that if you come, you can abandon any thought of a deal with the Maxwell Companies? He nods miserably.

Good. Clearly I did not misjudge your intelligence. My voice is measured and calm. Meanwhile, I am stroking myself lightly, savoring the sensation of my fingertips in my slick, engorged pussy. He cannot tear his eyes away.

No one pleasures me as well as I do myself. I slide my fore and middle fingers along the grooves between my inner and outer labia, pinching the tender flesh between them. The sensation is so intense, I nearly lose my balance. Now I have three fingers thrusting in and out of my pussy, while I massage my clit with my thumb. Fantastic! My hand is drenched with my juices. I grind my fist into my cunt, feel it slip in part way, almost all the way as I so often have fantasized. But in my fantasies, it is not my small hand, but a man’s fist, huge and hard, forcing me open, filling me while I come again and again. For a moment, I forget my audience, lost in sensation and my own lewd imagination.

I stop as I feel myself losing control. Not yet, not yet. I hold my slick fingers under his nose. Do you want some, Mr. Dalton?

He brightens a bit, nodding emphatically.

On your knees, then, between my legs. Use your mouth only. In fact, I would like you to clasp your hands behind you, and imagine that I have bound them there.

Intuition and observation lead me to the conclusion that at some level, he enjoys submitting to my whims. Each time I command or humiliate him, his erection swells further. His face is flushed now, and I can see the sheen of sweat on his forehead.

He holds one hand in the other, at the small of his back. With surprising grace, he lowers himself to the floor and crawls the short distance to me. He is close to six feet tall, and as I have said, I am quite petite. He has to bend nearly double to apply his mouth to my cunt.

He is good, very good. It feels as if he has several tongues, all lapping and probing me at the same time. I allow myself to relax a bit. He opens me wider, pushing deep into my vagina, then retracts his tongue and licks quickly at my swollen pussy lips. Ah…

I grab his hair and pull his head deeper into my crotch. He may be having some trouble breathing, but as I grind myself against his mouth, I don’t care. I’m going to explode, any moment now, and he knows it. He rakes his teeth across my clitoris. My whole body spasms, just short of climax. I push him away.

No, I say, struggling to control my breathing. You may not make me come, Mr. Dalton. I decide when and how I will orgasm. You are just a tool, a toy.

He looks stricken. His face is smeared with my secretions. He is panting. Meanwhile his prick is huge and purple, the tip glistening with pre-cum.

Lie down on your back. I am brusque, my own level of excitement making me impatient. He complies, settling himself on the lush oriental carpet. From the inside pocket of my suit jacket I retrieve a condom. His eyes widen as he understands that this scene was not impromptu.

Remember what I said about your coming, I warn, sliding the sheath over the stretched velvet skin of his cock. He is tense, clearly in desperate straits. You must stay still. Try thinking about something else. Think about all the money we are going to make together. I give him my sweetest and most enigmatic smile.

Then I straddle him and settle my sopping cunt onto his trembling erection. Oh, he is delicious! He fills and stretches me, just the way I like. He is long enough to let me reach those difficult spots, those hungry, aching places deep inside. And so hard, rigid beyond what would seem possible for mere flesh.

I begin to ride him. He tries valiantly not to move, but every now and again his hips jerk, plunging him even further into my depths.

As I sink once more into my fantasies, I forget him. What would it feel like, I wonder, to have that fantasy man’s fist in my arse instead of my pussy? My sphincter tightens at the thought of such a violation, but my sex shudders with new pleasure. My thigh muscles clench down with unbelievable force on the thick rod between them, triggering new spasms deep in my belly. My companion moans, perhaps in pain, but I am too far gone to chastise him.

At last I let go, growl, shriek, force myself down on him again and again until I break the barrier. The orgasm floods over me. For a moment I am soft, vulnerable, totally unguarded as I float in the waves of pleasure.

I am just returning to self-consciousness when I feel him swell inside me. My eyes fly open, a reprimand on my lips, but it is too late. His eyes are closed, his face a picture of sweet relief. I can feel the heat of his ejaculation through the thin latex, and the power of his muscles forcing the liquid out of him. The contractions go on and on, long beyond the time when he should be emptied.

I find I am caught up in the rhythm. My cunt throbs in time with his pulsing organ. When he gives a final thrust, it pushes me over the edge again, in an ecstatic, endless fall.

Awareness returns gradually. I am lying on his chest, his necktie crumpled beneath my body. He looks at me, worried, but after so much pleasure, I can hardly be stern.

Without a word, I stand and straighten my clothes. He continues to lie on the rug, waiting for my instructions. Very good. Not really a worthy adversary, but highly motivated. I peel the condom off his shrinking flesh and let the semen dribble out over his blond pubic curls.

On your feet, Mr. Dalton, I say as I walk to the intercom on my desk. Let us conclude our business. I push the talk button and summon my assistant.

Margaret, could you please bring me the papers for the Holgram-Marsh acquisition?

Right away, Ms. Chen.

Dalton looks down at his limp penis, flapping loosely between his tanned legs, then back at me in piteous supplication.

Please sit down. Margaret will just be a moment.

He seats himself bare-arsed in the chair, which I know is sticky with my fluids. I hold his eyes.

Margaret knocks and enters with a thick manila file. Her eyes widen at the sight of my poor associate, but as always she maintains her admirable composure. Here you are, Ms. Chen. I believe that you will find everything in order.

Thank you, Margaret. As she leaves, I hand a copy of the contract to my discomfited companion. Please look this over and see if it satisfies your requirements. He takes the multi-page document that I push across the desk, looking a little puzzled. As you see, I have decided to accept your proposal. With a few minor adjustments in the terms, of course.

He begins to read, his high-powered business persona reasserting itself. I watch the expressions on his face, note the frown when he reaches the details on the equity split. He glances up and sees that I am deliberately sucking on the end of my pen, running my tongue up and down the metal case. With mixed frustration and resignation, he returns to his perusal.

When he finishes, he replaces the papers on the desk and simply looks at me. Well? I ask. Do you accept the terms, or do we need to engage in further—negotiation? My tone is light and noncommittal, but there is steel in my eyes. After a long moment, he sighs, shrugs, and reaches for the pen. Even with my changes, it will still be a profitable deal for him and his company.

His expression is strange, anger, admiration, and hunger mixed. His cock is half-hard, despite his humiliation. I could take him again, if I wanted. However, I have other business to attend to.

I sign the contract with a flourish, and flash him a sweet, even demure, smile. I will make sure that Margaret sends copies of the documents to your board of directors.

At the mention of Margaret, he blushes.

Tonight, down in the bars, they will be telling tales about me, my ruthless tactics and rapacious nature. Mr. Dalton will keep quiet, though. And none of the stories will even begin to match the truth.

Extortion

Margaret—Tuesday morning

Sometimes she scares me. I’ve known her since she was a child, but I still can't get used to the way she works. The way she always gets what she wants. That was not the first half-naked man I’ve seen in her office.

She is brilliant, disciplined, and focused. Yet underneath there is that raw sensuality, always threatening to flare up and consume her. She thinks that she is sophisticated and outrageous. All I see is her youth. She is far from innocent, but at twenty-four, she cannot possibly be as cynical and predatory as she pretends.

Constantly, Ruby reminds me of her father. I was his assistant before Ruby took the reins, so I had plenty of opportunity to observe his strategy. Liu Shan Chen had the same great intelligence, at once intuitive and calculating. Like Ruby, he would disarm his opponents with his gracious manner and impeccable reason. Then he would strike, and his associates always found themselves concluding the bargain on his terms.

He was never corrupt or dishonest, merely shrewd, patient, and unrelenting. Unlike Ruby, though, he never used his adversaries’ sexual desires against them. He didn’t need to.

For Ruby, it’s different. She told me once that a woman in business is fundamentally at a disadvantage, even today. So she turns her apparent vulnerability on its head, and uses it to even the score.

Not that she doesn’t enjoy herself. These scenes allow her to satisfy her desires without giving up control. Who can blame her? Not I. I know the fiery blood that runs in her veins. Because her father was my lover.

Ruby was six when Liu hired me, fresh out of secretarial school, to be his executive assistant. He liked my white collars and sensible shoes, he said; the neat part in the middle of my hair and my scant makeup. I knew as soon as I looked at you, he whispered in my ear one night as he slid smoothly in and out of my rear passage, that it was all a delightful, demure facade. That underneath you were as randy as a cat in heat.

How I miss him! He saw me more clearly than I saw myself back then. He was right, of course. In his expert hands, I learned quickly how to surrender myself to the passion that burned in me, how to give and receive pleasures I had not even dreamed of.

I am getting wet just thinking about him. I remember his mouth, delicate yet strong, sucking on my nipples until I felt they would burst. I ache for his hands, tracing a path of delight from the hollow of my throat to the depths of my sex. His wonderful voice could be gentle or commanding. We would pretend sometimes that I was his slave. Heart pounding with excitement, I would wait to hear his next lewd, outrageous instruction.

When he traveled for business, I’d accompany him. This was completely legitimate. I would handle all the details and arrangements, leaving him free to study the terrain and plan his tactics. He would call me Ms. Southington. During the day he would woo clients and make deals.

The nights were a different story. For me, the days were unreal, gray and flat. I lived for the vivid nights, which might be lurid or tender, depending on his whim.

I recall one spring night in Paris, where we had a suite on the twelfth floor of some grand