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“Usually, people know where they keep their candles in the house in case of a blackout,” she says with another yawn. “You probably have staff that takes care of that sort of thing for you, though.”
Her words don’t carry the scorn most people have when they speak of my wealth, but she is not wrong in her conclusion. I do have staff that take care of my home, and I probably wouldn’t know where to find them if we were at my place either. It’s not like I’m the type to keep candles around.
Suddenly, her words register. I realize again that Joy thinks this place is mine. Obviously, she isn’t the owner’s son’s representative that Eric promised would meet me here. He and I will be having words aboutthatmistruth later, but for now, I feel compelled to set the record straight.
“This isn’t my house,” I tell her bluntly.
“What? What do you mean?” Joy looks around quickly, as if afraid the real homeowner will jump out at any second.
I rush to reassure her. “It’s okay. I am thinking of buying this place, and my associate made arrangements for me to stay here for the weekend to get a feel for the property.” For now, I don’t tell her that he is the one who hired her. I’m not sure I’m ready for that conversation.
Joy seems to consider my words for a moment before nodding her head, then letting out another yawn. I figure I might as well wait for her to go to bed before I try to do anything about the power issues.
“You look sleepy,” I say, illuminating her droopy eyes with my flashlight. “How about this. I’ll make us a cold sandwich, and you can get some rest. We can look for the candles tomorrow, and I’ll start that fire for you then, okay? We should be warm enough in the bedroom with extra blankets.”
“Deal.”
“Here, hold this,” I say, handing her the phone, so she lights the kitchen while I make us a snack. As much as I would love to grill her a steak or make her something a bit more fitting of our first meal together, our circumstances don’t exactly allow for that.
I grab what I can from the refrigerator and make us ham sandwiches, serving them with milk. It’s not much, and I don’t expect her to like it, but her face takes on a look of pure bliss when she bites into the sandwich.
“Hmm, this is the best sandwich I’ve ever had,” she moans deeply, the sound making my cock pulse in my pants and balls ache with need.
I grab a bottle of water and chug the entire thing, but it does nothing to sate my thirst. Fucking hell, I could just bend her over the kitchen counter and thrust into her. She’s wearing nothing underneath that shirt, and it would be so easy . . .
Fuck!
I push back my desire, choosing instead to focus on the girl eating her sandwich like it’s the best thing she’s ever tasted, and I can tell that she is not faking her reaction. She polishes off the entire thing before offering me a shy smile, her eyes a little dazed as she stares at me. “Do you want to have sex with me?”
I sputter, choking on air. To hear those words come from her lips, her wide, innocent brown eyes watching me sleepily, make her question even more surprising.
“You must still be sore from earlier.”
“I am but . . . I don’t mind doing it again. I didn’t hate it. In fact, I liked it a lot, and you are already paying me a lot of money, so . . .”
Right.
It’s the reason she is here, and a part of me wants to give in. I want to bend her over where she stands and fuck her, coat her sex with my cum, but the thought of hurting her further tonight sends a confusing ache to my chest.
Goddamnit!
“Tomorrow,” I say instead. “You need to get some rest.” Tomorrow, I will unwrap my Christmas gift afresh.
“Oh,” she whispers, her voice carrying notes of disappointment, but I have no idea what she expects when she can barely even stand. Her eyes are drooping with sleep, and she wants to have sex.
“Let’s get you to bed,” I say, grabbing her hand and walking out of the kitchen.
“You are nothing like I pictured,” she says sleepily as I lead her upstairs.
“No?”
“Not even close.” She chuckles. “Before I came here, I was scared out of my mind. I have never done this before, you know?”
“Why were you scared?” I ask, stopping at the staircase and turning to her. I lift my hand and brush the hair from her face, drawing my finger over her cheek. I don’t even realize what I am doing until she leans into the touch.
“I thought you would be someone older . . .”
“I am older,” I say. “I imagine that, at thirty-five, I am at least a decade older than you.”
