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When Declan is finally finished, and I’m once again smooth and bare for them, he rubs a cooling salve between my legs.
“I'm going to take her to bed,” Seven says.
I'm grateful when he picks me up and carries me up the stairs. I lay my head against his shoulder. On the main level, he takes me to the kitchen and sits me down on a bar stool. We eat some leftover pizza from the fridge. I find myself unable to believe he eats pizza.
When we get to Seven's room, he orders me to join him in the shower, but he isn't there to get either himself or me clean. And he's not there to fuck me, either. He holds my gaze while he takes my hand and wraps it around his cock.
I jerk him off in the shower.
“Fuck, yes. Just like that.”
It only takes a few minutes before he comes over my hand. He leans forward, his head resting against my shoulder in an oddly sweet moment as he struggles to gain control of his breathing again.
He shuts the shower off, dries us both, then carries me to his bed. There are blackout shades in his room, and his balcony door is solid, not glass. He pulls the shades and turns out the light before joining me.
My breath hitches in my throat alone in the dark with him just as I've been so many nights before. I'm so sore and tender from where they waxed me. Even so, I would give almost anything for him to fuck me right now, even if it hurt. I'd pay that price just to feel him inside.
My legs fall open for him automatically, and he touches me like he always does in the dark. Except this time he's more careful than normal, slower and more gentle. He uses lube to stroke me, and I come apart under his hands.
Even after I've come, I want to ask for more, but I don't. He presses a kiss to my forehead.
“Sleep, Kitten.”
12
We have a late breakfast, this time in the kitchen. Part of me thought since I’m their slave, and they can do whatever they want with me, that I would start taking over domestic duties. Even if they have a cleaning service, maybe they don't have a cook. But they seem to be content doing the cooking themselves.
I've been allowed clothing today—jeans and a pale pink tank top. In fact, I was shocked to find my closet and drawers filled with clothes and shoes and undergarments all in my sizes. I suppose if they were planning this for a long time, they had plenty of time to get clothes for me.
Declan and Seven are both dressed sharply in suits, and it occurs to me I have no idea what they even do with their lives. I know Seven at least has always been well off, but what do they actually do during the day now that their life is back to the status quo? I don't bother asking because I'm sure they'll tell me it's none of my business, and I'm not sure I want to know the way men without conscience manage to acquire this much wealth and power over the police force.
Seven glances down at his watch. “Eleven a.m., Kitten. You're off the leash. See you at six. Each of them kiss me as though we are in some sort of unconventional, yet still fairly normal relationship. Then they just... leave. The house.
I stare after them, gaping like a fish. When I'm able to snap out of this fugue state, I step outside the main door to find that yes, they're driving off the property in separate cars. I find my blue Porsche sitting shiny and gleaming in the circular driveway. I have no idea how it got here, and it looks like someone washed it.
A young man who I hadn't noticed before, hands me the keys. “The car is ready, Ms. Mitchell. Mr. Kelly said to take care of it for you.” He speaks in good but slightly broken English. His accent is unmistakable, but I can't fully place its origin.
“What about the gate?” I find myself asking.
“There's a programmed remote in the glove box.” He opens the passenger side and shows me a slim black remote control with a single button.
“Thanks,” I manage. My fingers drift unconsciously up to touch my collar. With the pink gemstones, it looks like regular jewelry, especially since it matches what I'm wearing, but still, I feel exposed. I also feel a bit like a puppy with a shock collar to keep me from straying too far.
They must feel very confident in their powers to keep me while giving me the illusion of freedom.
I put the keys in my pocket and take a walk around the property. There are a few gardeners in the gardens. There's an enormous pool on one side of the house with what I would consider a “party jacuzzi”. It's all decked out on the far end of the house for BBQs as though this is an activity Seven and Declan engage in routinely. I just can't see it.
When I make my way back around to the front of the house, there are several white vans parked in the drive.
The guy who washed my car notices my wariness and says, “It's just the cleaning service, Ms. Mitchell.”
I manage a weak smile. Then I go inside and as unobtrusively as possible do a walk-through of the house. It's just beginning to dawn on me that I live here now. The penthouse was swank, no question, but this is on another level.
For all my ambition when I worked at the ad agency and the level of success I'd acquired, I'd never thought of myself as materialistic. Aside from the Louis Vuitton bag, I didn't put a lot of stock in things. And they didn't impress me. My drive for success was more about the pleasure of being the best at something and less about the financial rewards even though I did enjoy them.
But I can't help but stand in absolute awe of this exquisite house. There's a huge formal dining room on the first floor just off the generous entryway. There's a sort of fancy game room with billiard tables. There is literally a room which I think is meant just for smoking cigars and drinking whatever manly drink men prefer to have with cigars.
There is a solarium and an indoor pool. A library that extends up two stories. A fitness room. A fucking ballroom. Is there any reason to ever leave a house like this and go out into the world? I half expect to come across a restaurant or a gift shop, but of course I don't. There are a few smaller, cozier rooms that most people would call things like “living room”. At the end of the hallway is a nice large office, but when I push the door open to one, a maid says, “I wouldn't, Ms. Mitchell, that's Mr. Kelly's private office.”
