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“I thought I was meeting you there,” she groggily responds.
“You were,” I confirm. “I text you hours ago letting you know. As well as a few instructions for our meeting. I suggest you read them and get ready. I’ll be there at 10:30 a.m.”
Without giving her time to interject or request more time to allow her to navigate what I can only assume is one hell of a hangover, I hang up the phone.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
LAYLA
Rolling from bed, I thoroughly hate Chardonnay. Lumbering to the bathroom, I scroll through Tristan’s text while the shower warms and I pee.
TRISTAN
I’ll pick you up at 10:30am.
We’ll discuss the terms of our arrangement over brunch.
How the fuck can something so sexy and intimate sound like a business deal?
Wear a dress for me.
A short one.
Read over the attached list and come prepared to discuss.
Peeling off my socks, I balance on one leg and lean against the wall as I click the link and begin to scroll through the document: Rope. Handcuffs. Spanking. Slapping. Edging. Forced Orgasms. Chastity. Fisting. Free use. Cockwarming. Sharing. Anal fisting.
Anal what?... Um, hard pass.
Wait? Sharing.
Sharing what? Or who?
What the hell are you signing up for, Layla?
Taking a quick shower, I hastily get ready and head to my closet to find something that meets his instructions. I settle on a short yellow sundress and a pair of strappy yet casual heels.
A message from Tristan pops on the screen as I fasten my second sandal.
I made good time, I’m turning down your block now.
I’m early, if you need more time I’ll head to the parking garage.
I’m ready.
I’ll head down so you don’t have to park.
One more thing.
Take off your panties.
Excuse me?
I read his message no less than three times to ensure it says what I think it does.
I thought we were going to brunch…
We are.
