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Should I have offered? Being the polite thing to do? Okay, dumb question, no. He was blackmailing me! I owed him nothing. Even if it was kind of rude to receive and not give. And it’s not like I was asking for any of this. So there. He gets nothing.
I shake my head, trying to fight off all these thoughts. Dog. Focus on the dog. Classic conditioning. Blah, blah, blah. I don’t know why I even bother trying to dissect what happened. It’s not happening again. If he thinks I’m going to obey him and show up in whatever’s in that box, he’s nuts.
Don’t open that box.
Open it. I bet it’s pretty.
Who cares! It’s from a deranged control freak who needs to lure women in by fancy things and bribery.
I still bet it’s pretty.
I bet it is too.
Sitting Indian style in the middle of my dorm room, I try to convince myself I can still open the box and see what’s inside without putting it on and showing up at Exquisite. He’ll never know I did. I can just peek, then send it back. With a sigh of defeat, I pull at the lace and unwrap the bow, pretending the excitement swirling in my stomach is due to turkey fritter night in the cafeteria.
The second the top is off, I gasp. My hands fight between covering my mouth in shock or touching the vibrant green silk.
“This is so ugly. Put the top back on, Jensen.” I will once I just have a little touch. My fingers brush over the silky material. I pick up the dress and rub it between my fingertips. Before I can stop it, the dress is out of the box and I’m up, holding it up against my body.
Standing in front of our full-length mirror, I stare back at myself. The dress is absolutely stunning. And, of course, completely open in the back. I twirl it around a few times, knowing I can’t keep it, but imagine myself in it, feeling just as beautiful as the dress itself.
“You cannot keep her. Put her down and go eat your heart out in turkey fritters. You love turkey fritters. Love them. The mashed potatoes with gravy. Best part of Wednesday. Focus on Wednesday.”
I can do this. Focus on Wednesday.
THERE’S ALWAYS NEXT WEDNESDAY.
It’s my only thought before I pay the driver and step out of the cab, the night breeze hitting my bare legs. The moon is lit to full capacity, leaving the night sky bright. I walk down the alleyway to the secluded door, but I don’t get a chance to knock. It opens just as I raise my arm.
“You’re late.” The spawn’s deep voice tickles my eardrums. He stands there, looking dominant in his tailored black suit and in complete control. Holding the door open, he steps to the side to allow me entry. How did he know I was here? I look at my watch just as the minute hand strikes nine o’clock.
“Wait, I’m actually on—”
“Inside, Ms. Stone.”
What’s this guy’s problem? “The bossiness is not needed, pal,” I snap, walking past him into the busy nightclub. I look around, amazed at how crowded it is. Apparently, Wednesday is not only popular for turkey fritters but choking and spanking too.
Damien doesn’t bother to respond. I hear the door shut behind me and immediately feel his presence. He’s extremely close, and when his warm hand hits my lower back, I jump. He’s next to me, the pressure of his hand escorting us up to the bar of the main room.
“Kade, a bourbon neat, and a club soda for the lady.”
I step up to the bar, getting Kade’s attention. “Actually, I’ll take one of those as well—”
“She’ll have the club soda.”
Kade stalls for a second, but nods at Damien and walks away to fulfill his request.
“I don’t want a club soda.”
“And I don’t serve underage people in my club.”
“Oh, but you can fuck them?”
He turns, giving me his full attention. “I haven’t fucked you, Ms. Stone.”
My cheeks blast a deep shade of red in embarrassment. I open my mouth to say something rude, not sure what that’s going to be, but I’m interrupted when Kade returns, placing the two drinks on the bar. Damien retrieves them, handing me the club soda. I want to refuse it, but the way he’s staring at me, I’m suddenly parched. I accept the drink, thankful for the distraction as I take a large sip. His hand is back to touching me in my barest area, silently instructing me to follow him. I do as I’m told, because I suck, and he leads us to a secluded corner of the dance floor.
“What are we doing? You don’t look like the dancing type.”
“Who says we’re dancing?”
“Well…why are we here?” I ask.
“We’re watching.”
My eyes widen a smidge. What exactly are we watching? I turn toward the crowded scene, and my attention locks on a couple dancing a few feet away from us. But not just dancing. Like dancing. Using the term bump and grind would be an understatement. They’re definitely doing that but in slow motion. Their bodies aren’t in tune with music, as if they’re creating the movements to beats only they can hear. The man has the woman’s back to him. Their bodies align perfectly, her butt rubbing away at his junk. They seem to be in their own world, not worrying about who will see.
