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"Sorry," I add and look back at the floor.
"Sorry, who?"
I swallow more pride. "Sorry, Sir."
He leans closer, and his hot breath hits my ear. I close my eyes, trying not to shift, and he states, "You have two weeks."
"Sir?" I ask, not understanding.
"To learn proper etiquette. You will not embarrass me in public."
"Where are we going?"
"Not the right way to ask," he declares.
I stay quiet, unsure what I did wrong.
He continues, "The proper way is to ask, 'Sir, permission to ask where we are going.'"
I look up and gape at him, muttering, "You have to be kidding me."
Anger flares on his expression. "Do you think this is a joke?"
My stomach flips. I quickly answer, "No. Sorry."
"Ask me the correct way, and stay in position," he commands.
I take a deep breath, tighten my grip on my fingers, and say, "Permission to ask where we are going, Sir."
He waits a minute, then replies, "Permission not granted."
"What?" I ask, glancing up again, then quickly look back at the floor when I realize what I just did.
His tone changes as he practically sings, "Oh, Blakely, Blakely, Blakely," while tracing the edge of the collar.
I resist the urge to mimic him, wondering how I'll ever get used to this. Maybe I made a huge mistake and should tell him the deal's off and I can't do this. It's just not me.
"Don't move," he says and leaves the room.
The sound of the clock ticking is the only thing I hear. Too much time passes. My knees hurt, and I'm tired of keeping my back straight. He finally returns and holds out his hands. "Rise."
I take them, happy to stand and glad he's helping me since my knees feel locked. He leads me to the kitchen, then puts his hand on the back of my neck, murmuring in my ear, "Arms out straight, breasts and cheek on the counter."
I do as he says and shriek, "Oh my gosh, that's cold!"
He slides his hands over my arms and curls my fingers over the edge of the quartz, instructing, "You don't have permission to speak. And don't you dare move out of position." He takes his foot and pushes against my ankles until my legs spread farther apart. His warm palms caress my ass.
Zings assault me. I press my ass against his erection, wondering if this is how he'll finally take me. The sound of his belt hitting the floor echoes in the air, and I close my eyes, suddenly appreciating the contrast between the cool countertop and my hot skin.
His ripped torso hits my back. Tingles burst near my ear from his breath. One hand curls around my neck, and the other cups my pussy from behind. He locks eyes with me and murmurs, "I own you, pet."
In a normal situation, I'd get upset about that statement. But here, at this moment, with Riggs's body caged over mine, his seductive, bad-boy expression pinned on me, and his hands where they are, my brain is mush.
"Tell me I own you," he demands, slipping a finger inside me.
My breath hitches. I close my eyes and roll my hips into his palm.
He pulls his finger out of me, and a sharp sting, as hard as it sounds, erupts on my ass.
