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10
I spendthe rest of the day in practiced, meditativedenial.
Forced ignorance. A tightrope walk of distractions, all in an attempt to drag my mind away from the events of the morning. And the pulsing but glorious ache on my ass. And the throbbing heat between my thighs.
None of it works.
Not sitting myself in front of my laptop and working on the presentation I’ve told Jacob I’ll have ready for our sit down with his team. Not walking around the house, or the gardens. Not talking to Julianna on the phone about her upcoming wedding.
Whatever I do, he’s there… lodged in my head. Teasing across my skin. Breaking down every wall I put in his path to insidiously turn me on more and more.
Nothing stops Noel Ransom from what he sets his sights on. Not in the physical world, and not in my head.
There’s also the lingering questions about what exactly we’re doing tonight. What gala? Andwhy? The idea of even stepping outside right now with all the press surrounding me makes me nauseous. Going to a gala full of elite types and people who definitely knew my parents, and who are absolutely guaranteed to spend the evening staring at me?
It sounds like a nightmare.
Finally, before the panic closes me down again, I just pick up my phone and text Noel.
What’s the gala tonight? I think I’d like to skip it.
No.
I frown at the most Noel Ransom text message ever.
What do you mean no? I don’t want to go out with everything going on.
I don’t want to go either, but we are. It’s a fundraiser for poverty relief in Cambodia, and will be filled with the most pretentious windbags of high society and finance.
I roll my eyes.
So… why are you going?
WE are going because I still have the power to invite new investors to my board of directors. There will be someone there tonight I aim to do so with.
The dots appear as he types a follow up message.
I did say we’d be undoing the damage you’ve done my way. You’re coming. Be showered by five-thirty.
As always, the swirling mix of indignity and heat accompanies his commanding tone. The back-and-forth, see-sawing desire to either slap his face or bend over on all fours for him and say please.
I shiver as heat teases through my core.
Fine. What should I wear?
Just be showered at five-thirty. It’s taken care of.
Of course it is.
Part of me wants to continue fighting him on going to this stupid thing. But I don’t. Instead, I go back to my tightrope walk of distractions and denial. But this time, I suck even more at it.
At four-thirty, I disappear into the bathroom. I shower, shave, take my time drying my hair, and then carefully do my makeup. By five-twenty, I’m stepping out of the bathroom wrapped in towel, only to find out exactly what he meant by “it’s taken care of.”
Someone, yet again, has come into my room while I was in the bathroom to lay an outfit across my bed. This time, a stunning, shimmering silver and diamond Oscar de la Renta gown that makes my jaw drop. Next to it, making me seriously hope my mystery outfit delivery person was Rosemary and not Kevin, is an absolutely scandalous pair of basically transparent black thong panties. No bra.
There’s also a pair of towering, equally glittering silver heels, and a small black box with a black ribbon—probably a necklace or something.
I flush, eying the outfit. My phone dings back in the bathroom, and I step back in to glance at a text, from Noel.
