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“I really fucking hope so.” When I draw back on my cigar, filling my lungs with the rich, oaky flavored smoke, it complements the single malt aftertaste in my throat.
“Go get the girl,” I instruct, starting to get impatient.
It’s been over an hour since I left her, and all I've been thinking about since that moment is what she might be doing. I could have given in to the temptation and stayed to watch her shower. I could have demanded that I get inside the damn thing with her, smashed her hot little body against the tiles, and fucked all that innocence right out of her. Yet something captured within those wolf-like eyes is making me desire something much more valuable.
I want her to be so desperate for me that she hurts.
I want her submission.
And I don’t want it to be forced.
Believe it or not, I’ve never raped a woman. I’ve never had to. Women submit to me far more easily than they expect themselves to. I don’t romance them. I train them.
Every trainer has his own approach, and mine was always to give a little and take a lot. To make them so desperate for your affection that they’d be prepared to give up their souls to please you. And once those souls belong to me, I sell them to the highest bidder.
Some might call that underhand and immoral, but when I compare myself to my brother, I’m not so bad.
It’s been a long time since I’ve done any training myself. There are trainers in all my houses who take care of the workload these days. Mainly because I much prefer to fuck for pleasure.
But there are always exceptions, and the girl upstairs will be a pleasurable task to handle.
Ricardo returns a few moments later, kicking open the door and shoving my new plaything through it, and I don’t miss the snarl she shoots at Ricardo over her shoulder as she tumbles inside.
“Leave us.” I shoo him away, and he snarls at her before backing out of the room and closing the door behind him.
The girl looks fucking irresistible in my shirt, so much so that I decide that’s all she will wear from now on. The white fabric is a perfect canvas for the vibrant red hair that she now has braided over to one side and resting over her shoulder.
And I also know that beneath that shirt, she’s not wearing any underwear. I didn’t provide her with any.
“Sit.” I gesture my head to the space beside me, and when she holds her head up confidently and struts toward me, I see right through her act. She’s nervous. I can tell by the way she’s blinking too fast, and the way she tugs at the bottom of my shirt self-consciously and rubs her lips together gives her away.
She sits where I tell her to, and her eyes search longingly over the food that’s displayed in front of her like she wants to devour it.
“Can I get you a drink? Maybe some wine?” I offer politely, and when she nods back cautiously, I smile at her. The girl will naturally be suspicious of everything, thinking that I’m luring her into a trap.
I reach for the bottle of Chateau La Lagune, 2003, that I went down to the wine cellar to pick it out for her myself. I’m sure the dark. fruit tones and a hint of vanilla will complement the taste of her lips if I decide to take them tonight.
Usually service would be Sylvia's job, maybe even Ricardo’s, if she’s busy. But I want to be alone with the girl, and so I pour for her myself. Her fingers twitch, and her mouth practically drools in anticipation of the food in front of her. But I decide to make her wait a little longer.
“What is your name?” I ask, trying to keep the aggression out of my accent.
“Does it matter? You own me now, don’t you? Why don’t you name me?” She stares up at me fearlessly, and I admire the effort she’s putting into this pretense as I take a sip from my glass.
“Yes, I own you. I could name you if I wish. But I’d like to know your name. I might see it fit for you to keep it.”
“Riley,” she eventually speaks up after a lot of thought, her eyes dropping back to the food rapidly.
“Would you like something to eat, Riley?” I act as if I don’t already know the answer to the question.
“Yes,” she answers, her hand reaching out to take one of Sylvia’s home-baked rolls, and then she gasps when I smack it away.
“Uh-uh,” I shake my head at her slowly. “I asked a question. I never gave you permission.”
She doesn’t beg me like I expect her to or even plead me with her eyes. Instead, she folds her arms over her chest like a spoiled little brat, causing my cock to stretch tight against my slacks.
“What do you want from me?” She narrows her eyes as if she’s trying to read behind mine.
“I haven’t decided yet,” I admit honestly, although she will probably think this is all part of a game.
