But when I glance down at the device, digital numbers flash the time at me. Nine forty-seven. I’m two minutes late to text him. I don’t hurry to rectify my lapse. Instead, I set the device in my lap and wait.
I’m going to surrender to him; that’s a given. And despite the fact I’m baiting the bull, I’m not going to make it easy.
Suddenly, the phone in my hand vibrates.
With a bracing breath, I answer. “Yes, Jett.”
“You didn’t text.”
“You made it clear that I would be at your beck and call once I was under your roof and in your bed. Until then, I’m still my own woman. Fuck off.”
He doesn’t say anything for a long moment. “You know there are consequences for your defiance?”
Of course. I’m looking forward to it. “I’m in your car with your driver, on the way to your location so I can be your sex slave for the week. I’d say you’ve already won and that you shouldn’t bother sweating the small stuff.”
“That’s not how I operate,” he grates out, teeth obviously clenched.
He’s on edge. Where I want him.
“It never has been.” But learning a little give-and-take would be good for Jett. And it might be fun for me.
Or it would if I wasn’t risking everything to be with him.
“Listen, princess—”
“Good-bye.” I hang up. A smile curls my mouth because I know I’m playing with fire.
And I hope very much I’m going to enjoy getting burned.
The car exits the highway and veers right, traveling down a winding two-lane road that seemingly leads nowhere. I have to be patient. It’s not as if I can ask the driver anything, much less plead for information.
At exactly ten, the sedan rolls to a smooth stop. The engine goes silent. The driver exits and shuts his door. I hear boots crunch the gravel outside. Then my door opens, and the driver holds out a broad hand.
With a nod, I take it. He assists me to my feet, then gestures me toward the house.
But it’s not a house, really. It’s a massive white French Country estate in the middle of nowhere with a breathtaking fountain, perfectly trimmed evergreens, and ornate wrought-iron front doors.
I turn to the driver. “What is this place?”
“Ya ne govoryu po-angliyski,” he says with a shrug of his wide shoulders.
He’s speaking Russian, I think. Not that I know the language, but I can only imagine he’s telling me he doesn’t speak English. Leave it to Jett to think of everything. Even if I’d managed to sucker this guy into talking, we’d run straight into a language barrier.
His ploy should probably scare me more, but he’s always paid attention to detail, so I’m hardly surprised.
Just slightly terrified.
“I understand.” I lay a soft hand on his forearm.
He nods and pulls away, casting a nervous glance back to the house.
Does he suspect Jett is watching?
He probably is.
I don’t bother the driver again. This is between Jett and me.
My journey to the front door seems to last a thousand steps. Not because it’s long, but because I take it slow. I want to make him wait. And suffer.
Like I did.
Finally, I push the grand front door open. The white marble floor gleams by the light of an elegant chandelier hanging from the barrel ceiling above. On an exquisite hall table to my right rests a glass of red wine, clearly for me. I pick it up and walk another few steps. I find a white wicker hamper with the lid open. An empty acrylic shoe storage box sits beside it.
He wants me to undress for him. Kneel for him. Suck his cock. Spread my legs. Surrender.
I sip my wine. He can wait.
His stare is all over me. I can feel it. Somewhere, somehow, he’s watching. And he’s impatient.
Ignoring the receptacles for my clothes, I wander through the house. It’s devoid of humanity now, but it has life. I feel the echoes of happiness here. I can almost hear laughter. Once, someone lived a charmed existence under this roof. But not the current occupant. Not at this moment. Jett’s brooding seethes through the silence.
He wants me naked—now.
There must be something wrong with me. I’m impatient to give in to him.
“Hi, Jett,” I call, my voice echoing across the tile.
No reply.
But I’m not fooled. He’s here. He simply won’t speak to me until I’ve stripped myself bare for him. I know that instinctively.
I continue scoping the downstairs, winding past a staircase on the left, then into a beautiful white kitchen with hand-painted tile, a rough-hewn island, and dark rustic beams overhead. Through an arch, I find myself in a cozy family room with a massive stone hearth and simple furnishings, dressed up with colorful accents and an unassuming chandelier. I sink onto a footstool and look out the wall of glass to the backyard beyond.