Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 92190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
I head to the kitchen, trying to do anything to block out what unfolded in the last thirty minutes.
As soon as an image of Dutton’s head between my legs pops into my mind, my core starts to throb, and I immediately shut the image out and try to focus on something else.
I pull out my new phone. My current one is rundown and has been dropped one too many times. I’m surprised it still works, but it covers the essentials like making appointments for Bentley. I don’t have any social media accounts, not since I fled from Bobbi. I didn’t want to risk any chances of him finding us or keeping tabs on me.
But for some reason, I think that’s about to change. I’m not going to post a bunch of photos of myself and Bentley or anything, but I want to feel like I’m a part of the world again. If I’ve learned anything since working at the club, it’s how stagnant I’ve become. And I thought I was okay with that. For the most part, I am. But it doesn’t mean I can’t have a few moments to myself, even if it’s scrolling on social media.
I change over my phone, and I can’t believe how easy and quick it is. I assumed it would be difficult to install. I then open my new laptop and, feeling inspired, download the software program I used to enjoy graphic design.
Although I’ve never studied graphic design, I’ve always enjoyed it and seemed to have a knack for it. I made money doing it until I sold my laptop. When I worked at the café, I took over their social media account, and I miss it—not the small amount of pay I received for it, but the design aspect.
When I look at the time, I realize it’s already two in the morning, and I stifle a yawn. I strip down to nothing on the way to the bathroom, pausing to swipe the clothes piled on my mattress onto the floor. I haven’t bought myself a bedframe because it doesn’t feel essential. As long as Bentley has everything he needs and I have cash saved, I’m happy.
I yawn again, and then something purple on my inner thigh catches my attention in the reflection of the mirror. I look down and gape at what I find. The fucker marked me with a hickey.
I scrub my hands over it as if that will help remove it. When it doesn’t, I click my tongue, irritated. He should know better than anyone not to leave marks. Not that I was complaining at the time.
I’m going to have to cover it with makeup to go on stage. Fuck. He’s the asshole who stipulated in our contracts that we refrain from receiving love bites to give the illusion that we’re not taken. It builds into our clients’ fantasies. If I had his number, I’d sure as shit be giving him a piece of my mind right now. I sigh, realizing he’d probably enjoy it. I don’t know what the fuck my boss is thinking… ever. But antagonizing me seems to be a hobby of his lately.
Stepping into the shower, I stand there for what feels like ten minutes. Closing my eyes, all I see is his head between my legs. Damn it. The memories are flooding back with a vengeance.
I hate that I feel like I’ve been missing out on something. I could go another five years without fucking another man if it means my son and I are safe. But a small part of me feels like I’m being seen as a woman for the first time in a long time. Not just as a sexual object at work. But for me.
And that’s fucking terrifying as much as it is unwanted.
So I tuck it away as a one-night fling, appreciative of the orgasm.
CHAPTER 11
Dutton
The manager at Honey, one of my father’s lingerie stores he co-owns with my mother, is piling the lingerie over her arm as I point to the pieces I think will look best on Posie. Whether she doesn’t have the time or chooses not to take advantage of access to my father’s stores, I’m not sure, nor do I care.
The store has yet to open for the day, and I haven’t stepped foot in it for over eighteen months as I have focused all my efforts on expanding my clubs.
“That will do for now,” I say as I take almost a third of the store, including sets that haven’t yet been launched. She looks like she’s struggling under their weight as she carries them over to the register to start wrapping them. I put a hand on the one I most want to see her in. “Put this one in a separate bag.”
“Yes, sir.” She smiles and tucks a piece of her hair behind her ear. I don’t mingle with employees… usually. Posie is the first. Most likely because she’s the first woman—employed by me or not—ever to tell me no and who gives me a piece of her mind. For some reason, I want to force her into submission because of it. What better way to do that than sexually so I can rid myself of this fascination with her?