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"So all of this-” I attempted to move my hand and make a grand gesture, but his hands found my wrists and held them firmly at my side. “-almost two thousand dollars in clothing isn't because I signed your little contract and agreed to be your submissive?"
Turned on or not, I could tell I was starting to grate on his nerves as he let out an impatient sigh. "All of this is because the woman beside me shouldn't look like something out of the bargain bin."
"The bargain bin?" I said incredulously, my voice rising. "Just who do you think you’re-"
"Lower your voice," he said coolly.
“You think just because I signed some document you own me? That you can just...” My words trailed off as he released my wrists and moved his hand to my hip, finding the zipper and quickly pulling it downward. I wasn't sure what was worse--that he obviously felt entitled to my body, or that I was thoroughly turned on by it.
It really didn't matter in the end because the feel of his hand on me turned all brain functioning off. There was only the desire that made my breath come in gasps as his fingers spread out inside the front of my underwear. His hands were right against the lips of me and I could've exploded on the spot.
Ohmygod he's gonna finger me right here. Right in the dressing room.
Gone was the girl who let her head do the thinking...I just listened to the words of my body. And it was screaming for him.
"Don’t stop," I whispered.
I arched into his touch as I felt him skate toward my center. He made a V with his fingers, spreading me wide. He leaned in close, his eyes tearing into me. His lips traced my jawline, soft as a whisper, stopping at my ear.
"Tread very carefully, Miss Montgomery."
He removed his hand, leaving me hot and bothered. Without another word, he strode from the room. I gazed at the door, letting his warning sink in.
I was pretty sure there was a silent ‘Or else’ tacked to the end.
Or else you really will end up thrown out with the trash.
****
I clutched my overnight bag to my chest as the driver eased onto the exit ramp for the airport. Just the sound of the airplanes whooshing overhead was enough to make me tremble.
I hated flying. The long lines, the unnecessary gropeage by the security officers, the overpriced food both on and off the plane, and most of all, the seats that forced you to get to know your neighbor whether you wanted to or not. It just seemed like every flying experience in recent memory involved dishing out cash to be made uncomfortable.
Not that this one was being charged to my credit card. All my expenses were being paid for by Whitmore and Creighton. I should have taken a small bit of relief from that, but the bright terminal signs that hung overhead still made me queasy.
I pushed my shades from the tip of my nose to the bridge and took a swig of the Perrier beside me. If you can agree to being one of the hottest men on the planet's sub, you can do this.
"You can do this," I said aloud. "You can do..." My self-affirming confirmation trailed off as I peeked out the window and saw we weren't pulled to the bustling curb of a terminal or some parking deck, but a small parking lot in front of a non-descript building.
The driver killed the engine, pulled out the keys, and stepped out of the car.
I frowned up at him with confusion as he pulled open my door. "What-where are we?"
My question bounced right off him and as dreamlike as recent occurrences were, there was no mistaking the final three words that came out of his mouth: Private aviation terminal.
“Private aviation terminal?” I clutched my bag tighter. "As in private jet?"
He cleared his throat. "Yes ma'am. Now, if you'd allow me to attend to your luggage..."
I let him take my carry-on, threads and seams supporting the fact that it'd seen better days, from my lap and out into the sunshine. I slid out after it, still in a daze. Private jet. I assumed that Jacob would travel in style, but I was just hoping for a first class ticket.
I wordlessly walked behind him. No, walking wasn’t right. It was more like gliding. I floated through the sliding door and wasn’t bombarded with a cesspool of noise and bustle since there were only a handful of people inside the lobby. A smiling attendant greeted us that seemed far too congenial to work at an airport. Instead of standing in a security line that crawled, having to remove my shoes and getting molested by some woman who wasn’t any happier about it than I was, I flew right through security.
The driver handed over my bag and I took it gingerly, realizing that I had no cash to tip him. That’s what rich people did, right?
“Mr. Whitmore has taken care of everything, Miss Montgomery,” he said, reading my mind. “Have a safe flight.”
I pulled up the bar on my bag and drug it along as I took in the quiet surroundings. There was no strip mall feel here, no walking past endless gates and scouring the place for monitors with flight updates. No bobbing and weaving around people willing to take you down to make their flight.
