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He doesn’t have to come and get me, though. I’m prey caught in his trap. He knows I have nowhere to run.
In every regard.
Shaking off thoughts I don’t have time to process right now, I finally decide to stop stalling. I comb my fingers through the damp strands of my honey-toned hair one last time and turn toward the door, my bath towel still wrapped around me.
I can smell the fragrance of the luxury bath wash he bought for me lingering on my skin. It smells incredible, like a big bouquet of lush flowers. The shampoo and conditioner were the same brand—something fancy and French with gold calligraphy on the label—so my hair smells just as good.
I would rather climb into his bed smelling like a dirty, sweaty mess so he’d be less inclined to touch me, but I suppose he already thought of that and that’s why he gave me all the accoutrements I would need to smell amazing.
I bite back the urge to grumble about falling right into his trap, but deep down, I know it wouldn’t matter if I smelled lovely or not. If he wanted me, he’d take me either way.
And the man clearly wants me.
He’s gone to frankly psychotic lengths to have me. If I weren’t so depressed about it, I might feel flattered.
It’s not forever.
That’s what I have to keep telling myself.
It’s only until he grows bored of me, and how long can a rich, spoiled ass like him really stay focused on a single woman? If men like that enjoyed commitment, they wouldn’t all be on their third and fourth wives.
I wonder why Calvin has never been married.
I almost think to ask, then I realize I already know the answer: because he’s a lunatic and no sane woman would marry him.
I smile faintly thinking it, but it’s not really true. There are plenty of women who would marry him for all sorts of reasons—physically, he’s exceptionally attractive. Money never hurts. I suppose if you looked at things in a different light, his psychotic devotion might seem… romantic, in a really twisted kind of way.
I remind myself he’s not devoted to me. I’m a fixation, that’s all. Land he hasn’t yet conquered.
He’ll get bored of me and move on. They all do.
The bedroom light is off when I crack open the bathroom door, so I make the mistake of thinking Calvin hasn’t come to bed yet.
My heart leaps when the light hits the massive bed and I see him sitting on the edge of it. My side of the bed.
He has taken off his suit jacket and rolled the sleeves of his white dress shirt up to just below his elbows. I’ve always found it sexy when a man wore his sleeves rolled up like that. I resist the urge to look at Calvin’s arms. I know what they look like. I’ve seen the definition in his corded muscles as he strained to wrestle me into submission, glimpsed his tanned, sexy hand and arm veins when he was grabbing my arms to pin them behind my back so he could have his way with me.
His tie is off now and the top button of his shirt is unbuttoned. He looks more relaxed than he did at dinner, and relaxed is a nice look on him. I don’t know why, but I would bet he doesn’t let many people see him in this state.
His gaze lingers on me as I cautiously step into the room.
Shyness creeps up on me and I think of how naked I am beneath this towel.
My voice is small, but it breaks the silence. “May I have some clothes to sleep in?”
He braces his palms on the bed behind him and leans back, his gaze never leaving me. “Manners?”
“Please,” I add, managing to keep my tone sweet despite a faint surge of irritation.
Calvin smiles. He knows I’m annoyed but trying to shove it down for him. He likes that. “No,” he says anyway. “I’m afraid brats don’t get clothes.”
I can’t deny I’ve been a brat today. I think I have my reasons, but I don’t bother arguing in my own defense. Even though I’m a little afraid to, I ask, “What do brats get?”
“Punishment.”
I suck in a breath at the cool steel in his tone. At the word itself. I may have been a bit combative at dinner, but I’m not in the mood to fight with him anymore today. “Even—even if I’m sorry?” I ask tentatively.
“Are you?” he asks, not bothering to mask the interest in his voice.
