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Holly
Obviously, Dexter did a lot of thinking when he was gone because he returned a very different person to the one who left. As I shower and change, I think about my situation and know I’m screwed before he even ‘makes it up to me.’
I want him.
I desire him and I want the opportunity he can give me, but I’m not sure I want the whole control thing. In my mind, trust needs to come before control and right now, I trust him as much as any woman kidnapped against her will and thrown into prison.
Sighing, I set about getting ready and change into an emerald green dress that sits just above my knee. This one disguises my curves and I do so for a reason, because I want Dexter to look at Holly, not the body he so obviously craves. I’m sick of being his fuck toy, although I can think of nothing else when he’s around. I’m even ashamed to admit that I loved the rough treatment earlier, which shows I need to get the hell out of here and fast. He can’t think that I’m ok with that because then he will have a license to do whatever he likes–to me and I need to put a stop to it if I am ever going to leave with my insanity intact.
My hair is brushed until it shines and hangs naturally, dusting the small of my back and I make up my eyes to match my mood, dark and sexy because one thing’s for sure, I relish anything he can give me in that department. Dexter Prince is like sex cocaine. One sniff and you’re addicted and desperate for more. I want to overdose on his particular drug and I’m ashamed, like any addict, how weak I am when it comes to it. But he can be so cruel and I’m not ok with that, so tonight we need to draw some lines that can’t be crossed and I need to get into the part of my head that conducts business above everything else.
To my surprise, when I enter the kitchen, Maisy looks up and smiles. “Hey, honey, you look gorgeous. I love that color on you.”
“Thanks, Maisy.” I always love seeing the pretty housekeeper who looks like bubble gum and ponies all rolled into one sexy package. Her husband is the stuff of cowboy dreams and any children they produce will win the genetic lottery.
She quickly says, “Dexter asked that you meet him in the library.”
My heart sinks. Great, the sex room. How can I possibly negotiate with him surrounded by memories of how amazing I felt when I was last in there?
Nodding, I head that way, feeling nervous and yet full of anticipation. To be honest, one crook from his finger and I would strip in seconds because I could do with losing myself in an orgasm or two right now. Maybe we can talk later because I kind of love the escape sex with him gives me. It makes me think of nothing but pleasure and after the past week living with the anxieties I have, any release from that is a welcome one.
When I push open the door, I’m surprised to see the room bathed in candlelight and the man himself standing by the fireplace looking so hot he should be burning in the grate. Black trousers and a white shirt, undone enough to show his extremely masculine chest, act like the lure of the sirens as I step inside. His dark, flashing eyes watch me approach and strip me of every ounce of resistance I brought with me. The way he even looks at me makes me feel as if I’ve committed a sin because that look means business and I’m ready to sign the contract.
Is Dexter Prince the devil in a not so clever disguise and am I being tested because if so, I’m about to fail big time because my mouth is watering and it’s not for the food?
“Holly, you look beautiful.”
Feeling myself blush like a fucking idiot, I smile softly, “Thank you, um, well, you too.”
I sound like a cheerleader crushing over the quarterback, and he smiles, telling me he knows exactly how I’m feeling right now.
Holding out his hand, he says warmly, “Come and sit down. I have some champagne on ice, a vintage I’m sure you will love.”
Hell, any champagne is a treat to me, even the bargain one they sell in Publix is more than my budget allows and so I smile and take the seat opposite him and grab the glass with eager fingers, as he says pleasantly, “We should toast our arrangement but I feel that’s a little premature. I expect you need more details to make your final decision.”
He’s not wrong about that, but one word strikes me more than most.
“You say final, what does that mean?”
He sits before me and just the way he casually dangles the glass between his legs has me imagining all sorts of dirty twisted thoughts and he says casually, “I need to give you a better reason to stay.”
Looking up, I note the determination in his eyes and say with surprise, “Stay. For how long?”
“That’s up to you.”
“Is it, it doesn’t feel that way?”
I take a large gulp of the cool, calming liquid and love how decadent I feel right now as I sip champagne with the master.
“I’m aware I’ve fucked up the earliest part of your training and want to reassure you that it won’t happen again. I know you have no reason to believe me, but I want this to work.”
Feeling a little bold, I say roughly, “You say arrangement, I’m still not sure what that is exactly.”
“My apprentice during the day and my partner at night. Submissive, if you want a label for it.”
I’m still confused. “But how will that work? It sounds to me as if you want me around 24/7. Surely, we would hate each other inside a week. Also, how would that look? People would think I was screwing the boss to get ahead and they would be right. I can’t do both, surely.”
He looks angry and I think I’ve spoken out of turn as he sighs and shakes his head. “I make my own rules and the staff can suck it up.”
