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I know that. I’m all too aware of that truth. If nothing else, I love what we do together. I love what he does to me and how he makes me feel. I crave it. I want to be wanted by this man.
I was so afraid of that lower floor in The Club, but I’ve never felt better than when I’m in his office. My phone slides across the coffee table as it vibrates.
Declan: Come in wearing the clothes I had delivered earlier.
A flush warms my cheeks, even though no one is here to see me receive this text. The heat from my face follows a path between my legs. It’s a good thing I was already sitting. What I feel about him is as intense as the way he looks at me. The lingerie he sent is the perfect example of his intensity.
Biting down on my lip, I think about the package that came today. The lingerie set I received is bloodred silk and lacy and must have cost a fortune. It came in a thick box, the kind that only comes from upscale boutiques with ladies behind the counter who never blush. It was probably handstitched somewhere.
This is what he wants me to wear, and he wants me to wear it for him. It wasn’t long ago that Declan commanded me to wear black at The Club, and to never wear red again. To wear it for now him feels that much more sinful.
He sent flowers yesterday along with my first check. It’s ridiculous how much he’s paying me. I nearly fainted at the sight of ten thousand dollars written out. The heaviness of the vase kept me upright.
It’s easy to tell myself I may have made that had I continued to be a waitress and therefore I deserve the payment. But the truth of the matter is far more difficult to swallow.
It’s also because all of these things, like gifts and money and lingerie. They almost make me feel like a whore. That’s what whores do. They take money and gifts from men in exchange for sex. Growing up, I thought this was the one line I wouldn’t cross. I might have terrible jobs and work in hot kitchens and put up with mean customers as a waitress, but I wouldn’t sell my body to pay the bills.
Then you grow up. You realize sex is … desirable. Not hooking up with strangers is more a matter of safety than anything else. And choosing the man you want. Then the emotions. It’s messy and complicated, and oh my God. I groan, throwing my head back. With my hand over my face, I admit the truth.
I am Declan Cross’s whore. Plain and simple.
That’s a truth I’ll never admit to my mother.
Now I understand what Scarlet was talking about before, when she told me about the red dresses. When it’s late, and the liquor is flowing, and these men look at you like they’ve never wanted anything more … sometimes it’s tempting. I get that now.
There is nothing more tempting than the way Declan looks at me when I open the door to his office. There’s nothing more thrilling than getting a package delivered from him and opening it to find something beautiful and expensive. Men don’t give you those kinds of gifts if they don’t think they’ll suit you. Declan thinks I’m worthy of these gifts, and not only that, he wants to see me in this gorgeous lingerie. He wants more than to know I received it, he wants to see the proof on my body. He wants to put his hands on it himself.
That’s what Scarlet meant, but I feel it all the time, not just when it’s late, and not just when the liquor is flowing. I feel like this all the time, even when I’ve had nothing to drink but chamomile tea.
It’s different from taking random people down to the lower floor for a drunken fuck. That wouldn’t be enough for Declan, just like sending me the lingerie isn’t enough for him. It’s not enough for me, either.
Stretching my tired body, I go back out to the kitchen and wash the cup from my tea in the sink, then settle it into a small rack to dry. I check the deadbolt on the door. Check my phone for any more messages and make sure it’s plugged in. I give the curtains another tug to make sure no one can see inside. Although I’ve slept most of the day, I feel like I could sleep for a week right now.
Then I go back to my phone and return Declan’s text.
Braelynn: I will wear it, Sir.
I have it all typed out and ready to send when something catches my attention from the TV. It was the word “Cross.” The remote has fallen between the couch cushions but I dig it out and push down hard on the button to turn up the volume. Even with it louder, it’s hard to make sense of what the news anchor is saying. Her voice is calm and even, and her gray blazer is so perfect that she can’t possibly be talking about one of the Cross brothers, but she is.
