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I grab a pen and a piece of creamy stationary cardstock. I quickly scribble the words:
Will you join me for dinner?
I slide the card into an envelope, handing it to him.
“Get you take this to her?” I say.
“Of course.” He holds the card between his forefinger and thumb, knowing better than to question what’s written inside of it.
I doubt she’ll come.
april 4th
Which brings us back to the present…
The morning after Lindy’s second night of imprisonment, after dinner with Damian in the dining room and what followed… she wakes up in her bedroom, her prison cell in the white stone mansion where Damian is keeping her.
eleven
Lindy
Iwake, having no idea what time it is. The jet lag’s not bad, as it’s been two days since we landed. What’s really bothering me is the discomfort between my thighs. I turn over in bed, moaning at the absence of cock.
The man knows how to make a lady remember him in the morning.
Heat flashes over my face, thinking of the way he grabbed my hip, my hand, forced me to get myself off against that dining room table. I ached for the way he took me from behind on the jet, filling me with his cock, my fingernails digging into the leather of the seats. I almost wish he’d repeated the act last night, instead of making me bring about my climax with my own fingers.
Leaving me hungry for more of him.
Rough sex has always been a fantasy of mine.
Having someone pull my hair while they slam their cock into me…
It’s liberating.
I think it has something to do with the way I was brought up to be something pretty to look at. A breakable doll. Too bad I wasn’t pretty enough to win any of those pristine white sashes to hang over my shoulder. I never did win a crown at any of those pageants, my mother’s hard-earned money all gone to waste.
A knock on the door interrupts my thoughts.
“Coming!” I slide from the bed and grab the plush pink robe that hangs from a hook on the wall, slipping it on to cover up my silk nightgown. Stepping into the thick, cushy slippers that wait for me, I tie the belt tight around my waist as I shuffle over to see who’s knocking.
I open the door. “Hello?”
Last night as Damian left me, he introduced me to Caesar, the massive bodyguard he’d appointed to stand outside my door. Now, Caesar stands to the right of the doorway, arms crossed over his chest.
“Good morning, Caesar. Are you the one who knocked?” I say, wasting a joke on the stoic man.
The big man gives me a grunt in greeting, then nods his head to the table in the hall.
My gaze moves to where he’s directing me. Waiting for me on the polished wood table is a large brown wicker basket, a pink bow attached to the top of its high handle.
“Is that for me?” I ask.
Caesar gives another grunt I take as a yes. I tiptoe across the Persian red-and-blue carpet runner, peeking inside the basket. I can’t believe what I’m seeing.
Oh. My. My, my, my. Oh. My.
A fluffy white sherpa blanket sits inside the basket. And nestled in that blanket? A teeny, tiny, baby tortie kitten.
