Never a patient man, I commence my retribution almost immediately by placing my hand high on her thigh. While driving the remaining fifteen miles to my home, I trace figure-eight patterns on the skin I know is flushed even with it being concealed by a pair of faded blue jeans.
When we arrive at my private residence, the heat beaming from her pussy hasn’t waned in the slightest. If anything, it becomes more profound the further I glide my Bugatti up the long driveway of my private abode.
“That’s my bedroom,” I advise Isabelle when the first thing her eyes drink in after I help her out of her seat is the semi-circle window on the top floor of my residence. The same architect who designed my house did the rebuild for the Dungeon too. “At night, you can see the whole of Ravenshoe from my bed.”
An amused smirk etches onto my mouth when Isabelle mumbles, “It’s beautiful, a fitting castle for a prince.”
“There’s nothing princely about me.”
After curling my hand around Isabelle’s, I guide her up the stairs of the often underrated architectural wonder. I guess that is my fault. No one ever comes here, and although I had every intention of making it my own during the construction stage, sometimes, it feels more like a fortress than a home.
As we reach the curved French doors, Isabelle asks, “How long have you lived here?”
“I’ve owned this house for nearly three years.” I shift on my feet to face her, suddenly mindful privacy may not be a well-sought-after thing for a woman as frank as Isabelle. “This is my private residence.” When she smiles a blasé grin, I emphasize my point a little firmer. “I don’t think you fully understand what I’m saying. This is myprivateresidence. I don’t let anyone come here. Hugo has only been here a handful of times.”
Her expression exposes she’s clicked on to my concerns, not to mention the faintest bob of her throat.
“Anything you hear or see behind these doors has to stay behind these doors. I share enough of my private life with the public. I’m not willing to give them any more of myself than I already do.” My wish for privacy is so stringent, up until a couple of months ago, electronic devices stayed in my office or in my car. I used old-school ways of communicating such as faxes and landline phones.
“I understand,” Isabelle replies with a little swivel.
Confused as to why she looks more smug than concerned about my somewhat problematic wish for my personal life to stay out of the limelight, I slant my head and arch a brow.
It takes Isabelle two seconds to succumb to the wrath of my torment. “Youlikeme.” She rolls her middle word with a seductive purr. It reminds me that’s she is far from the number cruncher you imagine when picturing an accountant.
Too shocked by her reply, much less capable of denying it, I guide her into the foyer of my home. The security system here is basic. Nothing but a key and an everyday lock combat nosey people. My reputation keeps most at bay. What it fails to deter, a trek this deep into the marshlands loses the interest of the rest.
People rarely look for the glamour beneath a bit of grime. They want polished to perfection from the get-go, clueless that the life experience behind someone’s hard exterior is usually the most priceless find.
Isabelle’s eyes snap to mine when I ask, “Would you like a tour?”
“Please,” she replies eagerly.
With my hand on the small of her back, I give her a quick tour of my home, starting at the stairs that lead to the bedrooms. “We will head up there later.” I take a moment to relish the heat flushing up Isabelle’s neck before showing her my downstairs office, home gym, theater room, and living area before guiding her into the expansive kitchen a chef would love, even with me only knowing a handful of basic recipes.
I’ve never had the time to cook, and when you own several restaurants, it doesn’t make much sense forcing yourself to learn a trade you won’t often use.
I gesture for Isabelle to sit on one of the breakfast barstools nestled under the island counter before strolling to the refrigerator. Catherine isn’t due to stock the refrigerator until Monday, but with my nights at the office extending past dinner the past couple of weeks, there’s bound to be something edible.
“What do you feel like eating for supper?” I ask Isabelle while taking in the bare yet still capable of feeding an army dinner supplies.
My cock thickens painfully quick when she murmurs, “You.”
I slant my torso out of the refrigerator before slowly dragging my eyes up her body. She looks thoroughly fuckable, but since no amount of hankering can discount the grumbles her stomach made the past hour, I must ignore the knowledge. We fucked for hours, but since it was only a prologue to this evening’s interludes. I need to feed her to make sure there’ll be no interruptions this time around.
“You’ll be dessert, but first, I need to feed you so you can keep up with my stamina.”
When Isabelle looks on the verge of detonation, I playfully wink, announcing I’ve spotted her blooming cheeks before I return my focus to the limited supplies in the refrigerator. “Being Saturday, our options are limited, so it’s either Catherine’s lasagna or chicken parmigiana.” When nothing but silence resonates from Isabelle’s half of the kitchen, I decide for her. “Lasagna it is.”
I scoop the lasagna into a microwavable dish, hit the reheat button on the convection oven, then set the island counter for an intimate dinner for two. The dining room is too stuffy for a casual night in, but Catherine will kill me if I spill lasagna sauce on the pricy couch in the living room again.
I’ve just placed down the cutlery when Isabelle mumbles, “Can I ask you something?”
I freeze, suddenly mindful I left Callie’s auction documentation open at the side of the counter we’re about to eat at. I was reading over the fine print of her sale this morning after a run along the foreshore, but instead of filing it into the safe in my office when Roger dropped me off, I dumped it on the counter before grabbing a bottle of water and finalizing some calls.
My tone comes out snappy when I attempt to deflect Isabelle away from her beliefs I’m the abhorrent man she muttered about only weeks ago. “Can we have dinner before the interrogation begins?”
Furious at myself, I remove my suit jacket, sling it over the island, then tackle my cufflinks with the tenacity of a bull shark. I can’t believe I left something so imperative out for the world to see. In my defense, I wasn’t anticipating any visitors this morning, much less the sister of the child I’m trying to buy.
