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The game he was playing with her...
No. It was time for her to step up.
She might have been weak when she allowed Declan to do all those things to her. Taking a crop to her ass had been out of her control. How she reacted, though, had been her sole responsibility.
Telling her if she came, she was his was one thing. Climaxing because she didn’t have the wherewithal to control herself was something else.
Oh god.
What was she going to tell her boss? She had orgasmed for their most prized prisoner of all time.
Nothing. She was going to tell him nothing because, as far as she was concerned, Declan had merely been taunting her. Showing her how easy it was for him to exert his dominance over her. Why? She didn’t know. And it was not because she was beautiful or that he was going to make her his wife. Those were just tactics to amuse himself while he waited to be handed over to her boss.
Not anymore.
After taking a very lengthy shower and wincing as the hot water splashed against her cropped-punished backside the next morning, which still burned a little, she reiterated the fact that she needed to behave coldly and professionally. But she certainly couldn’t be hiding out in the bedroom until the storm passed.
Declan Foster was not going to catch her with her guard down ever again.
She had to get him off her hands. Maybe she could risk taking the roads today, but one look outside told her the weather had kicked up a solid two to three notches already, and any kind of escape for both of them now seemed impossible.
She didn’t think she could last one more minute with him.
She rubbed her face and then dragged her hands through her hair.
She needed to calm down.
She needed a new life. Where Declan Foster didn’t exist.
She wished she had a work suit to wear, but she had packed for the holidays. She paired a dark beige midi tube knit pencil-cut skirt with a chunky red loose-fit turtleneck sweater and her brown knee-high stiletto boots.
Armed with her phone, despite service being erratic, the complimentary notepad and pen that came with the room, and the gun and handcuffs, she was ready to get down to work.
Peyton strode into the living room. What had happened between them would stay in the past. It was the only way to move forward.
Whatever he wanted, if a part of it involved him strategically breaking her down for his sick, perverted needs, she had to stay one step ahead of him with her brain intact, only to see what was in his playbook.
She caught a glimpse of breakfast—an array of Danish pastries, eggs, and sausages—gracing the dining room table as she marched toward him.
“Are you done with your breakfast?” she asked, cool and polite.
“I don’t eat breakfast.”
“Good. Please move to the table. Place your hands on the surface and spread your legs.”
“This again?” He turned fully to face her, slipped his hands into his jeans pockets, and perused her from the tip of her head to the tip of her boots.
“Mr. Foster, I will appreciate you doing as you’re told, or I won’t hesitate to pump a bullet into you.” She pointed the gun at him.
“You’re fucking adorable, Mrs. Foster.”
“My name is Peyton Adams—” She stopped mid-screech, then shook off her frustration with him. “Please move to the table. Place your hands on the surface and spread your legs.” She repeated.
Without a care in the world, he swaggered over to the table. Reluctantly, she patted him down, checked his pockets, grew inebriated on his cologne, and basked under the whisper of his breath when he bent and purposefully inhaled the scent of her freshly washed hair. Not a bobby pin in sight for him; he’d be disappointed to know.
Once she had him cuffed to the table again, which now stood devoid of anything that might even remotely aid him in removing the cuffs, she poured herself some coffee and took a Danish pastry. Sitting at the head of the dining table, she faced him directly.
“Mr. Foster, is there any other information you would like us to have? Please note that your cooperation might aid—”
