Page 19 of Leverage & Obedience

I read the text three more times. We’ve never gone anywhere outside the office before. Yesterday he fucked my ass, and I said “yellow” for the first time in my life. Tonight he’s taking me out.

My brain has questions, but my pussy is one hundred percent on board with this development. This is on-brand for me.

The problem is that nothing in my closet has ever gone out with a man like Bren Harrison. Hell, half my clothes are still in the moving boxes I haven’t bothered to open. I’m not opening those boxes today. That’s a whole conversation with myself I’m skipping.

There’s a boutique I’ve driven past for weeks. This is the perfect excuse to buy something new. Twenty minutes later, I’m in a fitting room trying on a backless champagne silk dress with a hem that hits three inches above where I’d normally want it. The whole thing is held up by two skinny straps and good intentions. I buy it before my pulse settles.

Back at my apartment, I have three hours and a low-grade panic that is mostly sexual. I break my earlier resolve and open the box I know has my jewelry so I can dig out a pair of drop pearl earrings I haven’t worn in ages. I paint my toenails deep red and tell myself I’m not painting them for him.

I am, very obviously, painting them for him.

At seven, the town car pulls up to my curb. Bren is in the back seat.

The driver opens my door, and I slide in. The leather is cool against my bare thighs, and the air smells like expensive upholstery. Bren looks unreasonably sexy in a dark suit and hisbeard trimmed close. His gaze travels down my body with an appreciation he isn’t bothering to hide.

“You look incredible.”

“I look like I’m trying too hard.” I smooth the dress over my knees and try not to fidget. “The saleswoman called it a dinner dress. I think she meant a different kind of dinner.”

“She was right.”

The car pulls away. The partition between us and the driver is up and tinted. Whatever happens back here stays back here, and my inner slut is making plans.

Bren shifts beside me. “I have something for you.”

“If it’s a protein bar, I’m going to be deeply underwhelmed.”

He doesn’t laugh.

He reaches for my ankle, lifts my foot, and sets it on his thigh. A zing runs up my leg as he slides my heel off and sets it on the seat beside him.

He holds my bare foot in his hands and traces the arch with his thumb as he runs his fingers up to my ankle. Past Lily, sitting on the couch earlier with a bottle of red polish and zero plan, just earned herself a gold star. His thumb circles the ball of my foot, and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep my face neutral. If this is about to become some kinky foot fetish thing, sign me up.

You’re welcome, current Lily.

He’s looking at the deep red on my toes, and I curl them against his thigh. He just needs to pull his cock out, and I can figure the rest out. I never expected to be hoping a guy would fuck my feet, but I’m honestly not surprised. I’ll just add this to the growing list of evidence that I’m totally his.

He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a delicate gold chain.

An anklet.

My breath catches and refuses to come back out.

He lifts my foot higher into his lap, and I watch the chain catch the light as it slips between his fingers. My pulse picks up a stupid, embarrassing rhythm.

His fingers brush the bone of my ankle as he loops it around, and a shiver rolls all the way up the back of my leg. The clasp shuts, and somehow this gold chain and his hands on my ankle turn me into a puddle. My sexy panties might already be a lost cause. He turns my ankle gently in his hand, adjusting the clasp so it sits on the inside where it won’t catch. The whole thing takes maybe ten seconds.

He’s done this before. Many times, probably. The thought bugs me, but I shove it aside. I’m too busy trying to breathe.

“Perfect,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb across the chain.

I should say something. My mouth is open and there is absolutely nothing in my brain as I look down at my own foot like it belongs to someone else. The chain is so thin it’s barely there, but it’sthere. And from him. My nipples tighten, and my clit throbs like a traitor.

I love it so much it’s a problem.

My chest tightens, and I need to make it stop immediately. Anklets are pretty, but this gift from a man who owns my orgasms and calls me “good girl” is not just jewelry. I can’t convince myself otherwise.

Being kept is something I don’t do. I don’t get claimed by men with bedroom voices and protein bars in their desk drawers. And yet here I am, mentally drafting my surrender.