“Now,” he says. “We do what I want.”
I hold my breath as he takes my ankles and ties them apart. Then he settles between my bound legs, and licks me until I beg him to stop.
Leah
The sheets rustle as I wake up, melting from the dark back into consciousness. My fingers slip along the crisp linen, seeking the warmth I’m starting to get used to finding—
Nothing. My hand closes on empty space and I sit up, my curls tumbling away from my face.
Royal’s gone, and my heart squeezes hot and tight in my chest. Light is sliding through the room, gray and overcast. I guess the storm is still haunting us, keeping me here.
The clock on the bedside table has its hour hand pointed to two, and I squeak. Two in the afternoon? I haven’t slept this late in years.
I need to get up.
The carpet is plush against my feet as I get out of bed, and for a moment I want to leave the blankets rumpled in memorial to an epic night and early morning, but I can’t. I smooth the duvet, and straighten the pillows. It seems like a crime to leave things a mess when this bedroom is more beautiful than anything I’ve seen on HGTV or pinned on my Pinterest board.
Warmth radiates up from the floor, caressing my skin, and I’m very aware that I’m not wearing anything. Me, naked, my curves bare in this beautiful, minimalist shrine to masculinity. Anyone could walk in right now. I sneak across the room, feeling like an intruder in this place, Royal’s home.
I squint at the closet doors, wondering if there’s something behind them that would work for me. Even a shirt of Royal’s would fall down past my thighs. That would be okay to tide me over. It’s going to be awkward to figure out what to wear home. Um, Royal, can you buy me some clothes so I can ride the bus?
Talk about a walk of shame.
I wrap my hands around the dark onyx door handles, and pull them open.
Lights flare to life in front of me. What I thought was a simple closet is nearly fifteen feet deep and ten across. That’s not even the real surprise.
My lips part in shock, and my breath falters to a stop in my throat. This closet doesn’t hold a single shred of men’s clothing.
Racks line one side, with dresses hung carefully on white velvet hangers. Gentle pink tulle, cream silks, gem-stone velvets, all organized neatly in length and a rainbow of colors. I step in and lift one hand, fingers shaking as I carefully flip a tag that’s pinned to a spaghetti strap.
Oscar De La Renta, it reads, and I drop it like it’s hot. I reach for the next dress, and can’t contain my gasp. Dolce & Gabbana. I flick through labels. The Row, Valentino, Zimmerman—
The blood is rushing to my head as I turn. The opposite wall is lined with neat shelves, rows of softly folded sweaters in what has to be cashmere in glowing colors, waiting to be slipped on and worn.
Whose closet is this? The picture of the beautiful woman with Royal flashes through my head. Is this her stuff?
The closet door swings shut behind me with a whisper. I whirl, and freeze. Hanging on the back of the door is a huge white monstrosity of tulle and satin. A wedding dress.
What the fuck?
I’m going to vomit all over the plush carpeting. Royal has a fiancée, and she has the nicest closet I’ve ever seen. Tens of thousands of dollars’ worth of never worn clothing, complete with tags.
Hang on. Take a breath. There’s a lot of wonderful things Royal has said to me.
There’s a lot he’s not telling you, too.
I’ve got to get out of here.
I need something to wear. In a daze, I hold a shirt up to my bare chest. It’s my size. Plus sized. Not made to a fit a tall, thin Italian Barbie, but a short, curvy girl like me.
My mouth is full of ash. Royal’s girlfriend… fiancée… is my size. Guess he has a type.
I reach for a drawer and pull it open, hoping to find something normal, like Target underwear, and instead there’s a pile of frothy lace, and what I swear is a tag reading Agent Provocateur. Once again, in my size.
My heart-rate is through the ceiling. All those things he said, all the nice things he made me feel… Lies.
Rifling through drawers, I find a bra and underwear that looks normal-ish and not worth a few hundred dollars, and quickly pull on a plain sweater, and jeans. The denim is soft against my fingers, the cut flaring on my curves. When I turn, I catch sight of myself in a floor-length mirror edged with frosting-pink metal flowers blooming along the gilt frame.