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“It’s not what I’m going to do to you, but whatyou’regoing to do tome,” he says, and then he leaves, locking the door behind him so that I can’t leave.
“Dumbass,” I grumble, getting up from the bed and testing the door. It won’t open, no matter how much I mess with the lock.
How am I supposed to eat breakfast now? What does he want me to do in here, starve to death?
15
Danya
Taylor’s reaction today tells me that, unless I get her under control, she’s going to be a nightmare to deal with when she finds out that James died in his pool. For one, she’s not going to believe that he wasn’t murdered, and two, she is going to make my life hell while I’m trying to enter the next stage of my plan.
And for some reason, she revels in making me out to be the bad guy. I can tell that she was trying to frustrate me when I was spanking her, pretending like it was all just a game for her, like she didn’t even feel it.
And if I’d have continued, she would’ve been showing everyone the marks on her soft little bottom, acting like I was a monster and a bully.
I know the game, and I don’t want to play it. The next thing I will be doing won’t leave any marks, but it will leave an impression on her that will be hard to shake. Every act will demand more submission from her until she can no longer deny her true nature.
It’s only a matter of time.
Ironically, time is something I don’t have very much of these days. I’m supposed to bring Taylor to the settlement soon, but I have to warm her up before I can do that. If she wants to act like a brat, that’s fine, but I’m not going to react to it anymore. She enjoys it too much.
I allow Taylor out of the bedroom for breakfast after an hour, but she refuses to leave, laying half-naked in the bed like she expects me to come in there and eat her pussy as a way of apologizing to her.
Not a chance. I’ll eat her sweet little cunt any day as long as she’s behaving. Right now, she’ll have to play with herself if she wants any relief.
I have the chef bring her food, and then I get to work in my office, checking emails and doing all the boring work that a man never imagines himself doing as a mafia boss.
I was supposed to be riding around, shooting guns and fucking strippers, but I’m becoming more like my dad every day. The next step is developing a limp and hitting people with my cane when I’m grumpy.
I’m sure Taylor would love that. She’d see it as an opportunity to boss me around like she did to her father before he snapped. I’ve never seen a man go from pampering father to abusive piece of shit that fast before. She must’ve really pushed him to the edge.
I don’t approve of his behavior, of course, but I wouldn’t have Taylor if he wasn’t such a rat, so I accept that it had to be that way.
I open an encrypted email from Ivan. I know he’s expecting me soon, so if he’s sending emails, I know it’s urgent. My heart beats a bit fast as I decrypt it, fearing the worst.
Did a pipe burst and flood the facility? Did someone die?
Or worse, did some military satellite discover what we’re doing there?
I laugh when I finally see the message, leaning back in my chair and running my fingers through my sweaty hair. It’s a fucking GIF of a dancing shot glass with congratulations written in Russian.
That motherfucker has a sense of humor after all, sending me an encrypted message of a goofy copy-and-paste marriage congratulation.
I close it and leave my desk, smoking a cigar in the library while listening to Taylor singing at the top of her lungs in the shower across the hallway. I’m constantly surprised by how she can appear so shy in one instant, and then burst out into this attitude like she owns the entire universe the next.
It’s endearing and stressful at the same time.
When I hear the shower turn off, I creep into the room to wait for her. As much as I’m annoyed by the way she’s acting, I can’t keep my eyes off her body. She’s the perfect distraction.
She comes out with her hair in a towel and water still glistening on her flushed pink skin, leaving wet footprints on the floor as she walks into the room with a purposeful swing in her hips.
“What are you doing in here?” she asks, pursing her lips and acting like she doesn’t love the attention.
“It’s my bedroom. I don’t need a reason to be here,” I reply, sitting down in the chair next to the window and puffing on my cigar.
She waves her hand over her face as she approaches the dresser. “Could you smoke that somewhere else?”
I grin. “No.”
