The little hooks mysteriously screwed into the bedposts that make my heart beat a little faster.
It’s like some sordid, luxurious, opulent hotel, and I want to seeeverything.
This really can’t be called a room. It’s closer to a flat one might find in Paris, or at the very least, a luxury suite, given its huge, walk-in closet, enormous bathroom with a tub the size of a small swimming pool, and an office that juts out on an elevated platform behind the bed. The kitchen area’s also large and spacious, equipped for entertaining guests and for businesspeople to conduct business
A few days ago, I would’ve lost my shit if you’d told me I’d be alone in a swanky room with threats of a spanking from the likes of Thayer Gerard.
But my eyes are becoming too heavy to keep open. My body begs me to rest, and that bed looks so inviting.
“I considered giving you your own private suite, but I think that’s a bullshit idea. I need to be nearby in case anything happens.”
“What will Fabien say?” I ask on a yawn.
“He’d kill me if he knew I left you unattended.”
“He’d kill you if he knew you tried to seduce me.”
“That, too.”
“A bit of a conundrum,” I say on yet another yawn.
Now, though… here I am.
I walk into the bathroom and quickly scan it, looking for something to wash up with. I find the room well-appointed and comfortable, also as luxurious as before, but I’m so tired I don’t even bother to take in the details.
In a sort of exhausted stupor, I sleep-wash my face and sleep-brush my teeth, then sleep-brush my hair. When I come back into the room, I find a pair of delicate, satin ivory shorts and a tank lying on the bed.
Thayer’s on the phone in the office. He jerks his chin at the clothes.
He’s commanded so much, I figure it can’t hurt to take back a little of the control.
“Mine?” I whisper, gesturing at the clothes. I’m so tired, do I have to change?
He nods. “Yes,” he mouths.
I could get dressed in the bathroom. Or… I could give him a little bit of a strip show.
That thought wakes me up a little.
He’s had a lot of fun bossing me around, or so it seems.
Let’s show him what he’s missed out on.
I paste an innocent expression on my face, as if I’m not fully aware that he’s about ten feet away from me, completely dressed and on the phone.
I yawn and stretch, pushing my breasts out, my eyes closed. Pretending he isn’t here. That he isn’t running his eyes up and down the length of my body.
I run my fingers through my hair and arch my shoulders, then stretch my neck from side to side.
I run my finger along the hem of my bra and yawn again.
I can feel him still.
Next, I unzip my pants and shove them down my legs. I ignore the wince of pain when the fabric rubs against my scratches. Step out of the jeans. Toss those, too, to the basket. Just in case he hasn’t seen it yet, I pretend like I need to turn around so he can get a better view of my ass.
I stretch so he can see me fully.
Oh, what is that on the floor? An invisible speck of fluff. I bend over and pick it up so he gets nothing but the perfect view of my ass.
