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“No, thank you,” she said when a wittier comeback failed her.
“Were you stalking me? Is that how you found me?”
“Yes.”
“There's a name for people like you, and it starts with the letter “p.”
They drove in silence the rest of the way to his house, and all the while she tried to straighten out her thoughts by keeping her eyes on her goal. Save her grandparents' apartment and keep her virginity.
His house was as big as a glass mountain; the architecture was ultra-modern but at the same time also alluded to a kind of rugged appeal that made butterflies sing in her tummy.
That was new.
He pulled into the garage, which was already lined with more cars than a luxury dealer had in its showroom.
Her heart started to pick up its pace again when he came to the passenger side and opened the door for her. She supposed she could be obstinate and refuse to move, but that would be futile knowing who he was now, so she stepped out.
With his hand on her lower back, distracting the very nature of her psyche, he guided her into his house. Immediately she was swallowed up in a pool of splendor, not in the least diminished by the sheer masculine minimalistic design of his home.
Pfft. So, his house matched his bank balance. No surprise.
“You live alone?”
“Why do you ask?” He walked her through an extravagant foyer and into what she deduced was his study, which was enveloped in dark leather and heavy furniture and different from the sleek decor of the rest of the home, or rather from what she glimpsed before.
“Well, it's a big house. You must have at least three butlers, two housekeepers, and a hundred maids.”
Please let there be three butlers, two housekeepers, and a hundred maids.
She didn’t want to be alone with him under one roof.
“It's just me.” He gestured for her to take a seat, which she gratefully accepted. Her knees had been under grave duress since Hunter found her in the nightclub.
“My staff have their own homes.”
“I see.”
Oh shitballs.
He leaned against his desk. She refused to let her gaze follow the contours of the black shirt he was wearing, the way it accentuated the width of his shoulders, the hardness of his chest, and the bulge that was his biceps.
“Do you always go around not wearing any underwear, Ms. Reid?” he asked, folding his arms across his chest.
“As a matter of fact, yes, Mr. McLeod.” Said the girl, whose collection of good cotton, high quality granny panties left even Marcy impressed. Without pausing to take another breath, she continued. “Now that we have that out of the way, can you please show me to my room? I have work tomorrow.”
“That’s an extra three strikes then.”
“Extra what?” she asked, her eyebrows twisting in confusion.
“The first five are for letting another man touch what belongs to me. Consider the second set of five strikes. punishment for disobeying my rules.”
“Wait... what are you talking about?”
“It's in your contract, and we had this discussion already.”
“But we didn't discuss anything like that.”
“Yes, we did. I believe the conversation went something like this: I said you would have to abide by my rules for as long as our contract is in place. You asked if you misbehaved would I spank you and send you to your room. I said yes. You agreed.”
