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Setting the note and my coffee down, I pull open the large box. I dig through the tissue paper until my hands find soft, buttery satin. It’s a dress.
Standing, I pull out the miles and miles of deep-blue fabric. There’s a full-length mirror on the other side of the room, and I stand in front of it, pulling the gown up to my naked body. It’s beautiful. Gorgeous, actually. Strapless, form fitting, with a strip of satin gathered at the left hip—flowing down beautifully into a slender, elegant skirt.
And it looks like it will fit me perfectly.
The smaller box is a pair of silver strappy heels that complement the dress. And they’re exactly my size. Of course.
For a second, I wonder if this is Miriam’s work, or if Kohl managed to pick these out himself? I’m going with Miriam. No straight man should be able to pick out a gown and shoes this beautiful.
A cell phone rings somewhere in the room, and I jump. Placing the dress on the bed, I search for the source of the ringing. I find it on the coffee table, hooked to a charging cord, in the adjoining sitting room. It’s my cellphone.
Swiping the screen, I answer. “Hello?”
“Good morning, Miss Swanson. It’s Miriam. Mr. Kohl asked me to inform you that the stylists will be there in a few hours.”
“Uh, stylists?”
“Mr. Kohl will be there to pick you up at eight.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
The stylists arrive a few hours later. They sweep inside the penthouse like a small army—one guy and three women—a hairstylist, manicurist, stylist, and seamstress, respectively. For the next several hours, I’m waxed and painted, my hair is cut, given highlights and a blowout, then curled into tight ringlets and sprayed with twenty metric tons of hairspray. My eyebrows are arched, full manicure and pedicure. The works. By the end of it all, I feel like Anne Hathaway in The Princess Diaries. Completely transformed.
Smoothing my hands down the satin skirt, I appreciate my reflection in the mirror when the door to the bedroom opens. Kohl strides in, kisses me on the lips, and heads straight into the closet. When he emerges minutes later, he is dressed in a sharp black suit, starched white shirt and black bow tie. He is so fucking hot. And he’s mine. He walks up to me confidently, sliding his arm around my waist. “You look so gorgeous in this dress.” He tugs me against his hard chest and leans in to nibble on my neck. “And I can’t wait to fucking rip it off your luscious body.” Heat twists through my body, and I bite my bottom lip. “Don’t you dare,” I tease. “This took six plus hours and a team of people to accomplish. Plus, you’ve seen enough of me naked.”
“I don’t think so.” He shoots me a grin.
I kiss him on the lips. “Thank you for arranging all that, by the way.” He smiles down at me—a genuine smile that makes my insides liquefy. He taps the collar I’m still wearing and shows me a slim key he’s holding in his hand. Then he turns me around to unlock it, moves to the nearby dresser and places it inside, pulling out a jewelry box in its stead. He turns to me with a chain dangling from his fingertips. It’s the infinity necklace he’d given me weeks ago—the bead diamonds glinting in the evening light.
“You’ll wear this instead of the collar tonight. It pleases me to see you bearing my symbol. Everyone will know you’re mine. And while the collar is entirely appropriate for Exeter House, out in the world, this necklace will do.”
He turns me around and fastens the elegant necklace, his knuckles brushing against my skin, sending a hot shiver down my spine. I’ve discovered the pleasure in obeying him. And I’ve discovered the power in giving him pleasure. “Yes, Master.”
He kisses my neck behind my ear, watching my face in the mirror on the far side of the room. “How does it feel to have the collar off?”
I touch my throat, then the beautiful diamonds on the necklace. “I feel a little…well…naked.”
He smiles. “Told you that you’d miss it.”
While I wouldn’t go that far, it does feel different. But I say nothing and he studies me in the mirror from behind before reaching up to run a finger under my bottom lip.“I’m going to fuck this pretty little mouth tonight. In fact, I think I’d rather like fucking you in every opening.” He smiles wickedly, probably imagining it, and my heartbeat races. “In the meantime, however, we have a gala to attend and people to wow. Let’s get this over with, shall we? So I can get back to enjoying you in every way.” The town car is waiting for us at the grand front entrance of Exeter House. As we settle in, Kohl pours us each a glass of champagne from the ice bucket and waiting flutes in the back. I down mine in one swallow, desperate to calm my rioting nerves. I’ve been to several upscale events in my life—mostly benefit dinners and garden parties with my parents. But I’ve never been to a gala, and on the arm of one the world’s most brilliant minds, it’s more than a little nerve-wracking. The event is only twenty minutes away, and by the time the car stops, I’ve had two glasses of champagne. My head is swimming and my lips are pleasantly numb as the door opens and the driver helps me out of the car. Kohl is right behind me, one strong hand clutching my elbow, the other pressed against the small of my back.
“Just stay close to me and you’ll do fine.”
I look up into his eyes and blink. Can he sense my anxiety? I shouldn’t be surprised. In the last week, we’d connected—body and mind—in ways I never knew possible. We shared intimacy I’ve never experienced with anyone else.
We make our way up a red carpet—an actual red carpet—that’s been rolled out over the museum steps. We’re quickly swallowed by a crowd of famous actors and wealthy entrepreneurs as photographers call out Kohl’s name, imploring him to stop for a photo.
We don’t stop. Thank God. Instead, he guides me through the museum’s Art Deco-style entrance and through to the ballroom. My heart leaps up into my throat as my gaze takes in the elegant room. Round tables, draped in white and topped with golden centerpieces stuffed with fluffy white fresh hydrangeas. Thousands of twinkling lights dangle in beautiful chaos from the high ceiling, drenching the room in a soft golden glow. It’s beautiful.
But more than the decor catches my attention. There are several beautiful women in the room, and they all seem to be looking Kohl’s way. Of course they are. He’s fucking beautiful.
And he’s mine.
With all the confidence of a woman who’d just been fucked by this man almost continuously for six days straight, I thread my arm through his and walk beside him, head high, as we find our table. To my surprise, we’re sitting with Jim Carrey, his date, and a few other people I only vaguely recognize.
At some point during dinner, my bladder decides it’s had enough. Maybe it’s the tight dress, or the three layers of underwear I’m wearing, or the copious amounts of champagne I consumed during the pregame. Whatever the cause, the issue suddenly becomes urgent. I take the napkin off my lap and place it on the table.
“You okay?” Kohl asks.
