I didn’t know what came over me. This was crazy.
I was a virgin, never even had missionary sex before, and here I was on my knees sucking off the hottest, richest, dirtiest guy I’d ever met. My ass burned from the lashes of his belt, my skin on fire from being spanked by him.
And I liked it.
It was so wrong, and so delicious. And now I wanted more of him. I craved him like a starving woman craves food. One taste simply wasn’t enough.
“Go,” he said to me, jarring me from my thoughts. “Be careful walking on the floor until someone comes to clean it up, and go back to your room. We need to talk.”
Those words settled in my stomach.
We need to talk.
What did we need to talk about?
I reached for a towel, but he was too quick. He took the one he’d already gotten for me and draped it about my shoulders, tucking it in around me before placing a gentle kiss on my forehead and leading me out of the bathroom. “Go on and get dressed.” His eyes twinkled a bit, and I wondered why.
Delicious anticipation wove through me, and I turned to the door.
“Yes, Daddy,” I said over my shoulder. I opened the door with a trembling hand. Even the door knob felt expensive, the carpet beneath my feet, the thick towel wrapped around me.
How rich was he?
Billionaire, the papers said. He wanted for nothing.
But if that were really true, I mused, my bare feet padding along the thick, plush carpet…then why did he want me?
When I arrived in my room, I stood in the doorway, the towel falling off one shoulder, barely covering me. I stood, and stared.
A brass fixture sat in the center of the room with wheels on the bottom and hooks at the top, like a temporary wardrobe or something they might have for actors or people stocking shelves in stores.
Beautiful, luxurious, exquisite clothes hung from hangers.
All my size. All amazing.
I walked toward them like I was dreaming, my hand outstretched as if they’d disappear if I blinked. Glimmering golds and reds, a silvery satin with a pearl neckline, and boxes upon boxes lined up to the right of the closet. With trembling hands, I lifted one lid, my jaw dropping. Shoes, of every style imaginable. One glimpse and I knew one shoe alone would pay my rent for a year. I touched the buttery Italian leather and lifted one tan-colored platform, sniffing the rich leather. Oh, my.
A white folded note caught my eye. Placing the shoe back in the box, I reached for the note, and opened it, the towel falling to the floor. I stood naked in the room, the touch of his belt still stinging on my skin, awed by the luxury in my midst.
I have a business meeting I could not cancel, tomorrow morning, in Paris.
I’d like to take you on my private jet tonight.
Please choose something to wear that’s comfortable in the wardrobe, and pack a dress and shoes, whichever you’d like best.
Paris.
Paris!
Oh my freaking God. This was the stuff that dreams were made of. Was he ready to travel already? So soon after being injured?
I smirked. As if I could do a damn thing about it. He’d do what he wanted regardless.
I fingered the soft, supple fabric of a pretty red dress. Muted colors and drab, loose-fitting clothes were easy to find at the thrift store. These bold colors and low-cut necklines shocked me. Was he out of his mind? Where was the simple little black or gray dress I’d feel comfortable in? I eyed the shoes with disdain, scowling at them as if they would bite me.
“I’d fall and break my ankle wearing you,” I muttered at one lovely but death-defying pair.
“I’d catch you.”
I screamed, snatching at the towel on the floor as I spun to stare at Sawyer in the doorway. He was dressed in an elegant, well-cut charcoal gray suit, and he looked so good my mouth practically began to water. His broad shoulders filled the doorway, his narrower hips pushed up against one side as he lifted a glass to his lips, amber liquid, ice clinking as he sipped. Ankles crossed, he was the picture of rich, casual perfection.
I swallowed. “You want me to wear heels like this?” I asked.
He shrugged. “I don’t much care what you wear for heels,” he answered. “Anything here can be returned. Lisa picked them out for you. But if you’re not comfortable in them, I won’t push it.”
I’d catch you.
I had the sudden ridiculous notion of me tripping, going flying, and him snagging me about the waist and righting me on a cobblestoned street corner in Paris.
Craziness.
I glanced back at the shoes and realized there were lower-heeled numbers, though they all looked expensive and luxurious.
“Alrighty then,” I muttered. “But I don’t know about these dresses, Mister —”
“What’d I say about my name?” His chiding tone arrested me mid-sentence. When I stared back at him, I felt my tummy flutter at his stern, dark look, brows furrowed over eyes that looked black as coal, jaw lined in dark scruff, lips thinned, one hand on his hip. He’d whipped my ass with the tail end of his belt, and my skin still burned from the spanking he’d given me. He would spank me if he wanted to.
I fucking loved that he would.
My tummy dropped and my clit throbbed.
I cleared my throat. “You said to call you Sawyer,” I said, meeting his gaze.
He nodded. “Those dresses are custom-fit for you, Annabelle.” With the hand holding his glass, he pointed at the dresses. “You have an hourglass figure, and my stylist knows what type of clothing would best fit your body type. Jewel colors and warmer tones suit you, as well as halter and sweetheart necklines.”
What was a sweetheart neckline?
I swallowed. “Hourglass body type?” I asked. Bullshit, hourglass body type. I had full hips and a rounded tummy, and I was hardly Marilyn Monroe.
He nodded soberly. “Yes. Hourglass. That means your waist is narrower than your hips and bust.”
He was a fashion expert?
“How do you know that?”
His eyes twinkled at me, just slightly, enough to make my belly warm a little. “I sell clothing, sweetheart,” he said. “You didn’t know that?”
I felt a faint flush creep along my cheeks and neck. How could I have practically slept with the man and not known that? I cleared my throat. “Um. Well, no, sorry. I didn’t know that. So, do you design them, too?”
He shook his head. “No. I have teams that manage all that. But to be successful, I need to know the market, and I know it well. I know what your body type is, what colors look good on you, and what you should avoid. And I’m telling you that every one of the items will suit you perfectly.” He nodded to the clothing rack. “Try them on. You’ll see.”
Still clutching the towel, I walked back over to the clothes and choose the simplest of them all, a deep burgundy wrap dress with a low v-neck. It gathered at the waist, the hem slightly angled. I glanced around and found bras and panties neatly stacked atop my dresser. “I’ll try this one,” I said. “Will you please leave?”
I half expected him to balk at that, but to his credit, he gave me one long look before reaching for the doorknob, and pulling it shut tight behind him.
As soon as he left, I dropped the towel, grabbed the dress, and ran over to the mirror.
Was he right? Would they all look good on me? For someone who’d been on a shoestring budget for over a decade, who considered swimsuit shopping a medieval form of torture, high-end, expensive clothing was an exciting prospect. I tried on the burgundy, and gasped when the material draped to my knees.
I. Looked. Amazing.
My breasts were full and curvy, my waist slimmed with the cinched material, the color making me look vibrant and alive. My eyes even looked brighter. Holy shit.
Pulling that garment off and placing it on the bed, I then tried on an olive-green number with scooped neckline, a shorter dress but still gorgeous. I sighed dreamily, feeling like I’d just stepped off a runway. Maybe I would wear those damn heels after all. I tossed that off and slipped on a v-neck halter top gold dress that shimmered all the way down to my ankles. Jesus, was he taking me to the Oscars or something? But I stared at my reflection, mouth hanging open, as I gazed at the way the material hugged my curves, accentuating my slimmer waist, and shined like stars in the night sky. A gentle knock startled me just seconds before Sawyer pushed the door open.
He whistled low, and I smiled. He liked it.
“You look fucking gorgeous,” he said, his eyes smoldering. “Wear that one.”
“This one?” I croaked. It was the most expensive, extravagant thing that had ever graced my body.
“That one,” he repeated. “I have someone who will fix your hair and make-up if you’d like.
I nodded. I mean, slapping on drugstore lipstick and a messy bun wasn’t going to do the trick.
“Okay, Sawyer, how much does this thing cost?”
“You don’t need to know that.”
I pursed my lips and raised my brows, but he only narrowed his eyes at me. I humphed and he crossed his arms on his chest.
“Doesn’t matter how much it cost,” he said. “It could be three million, and I’d still figure out how to lift it up to bare your ass.”
I tingled from head to toe. “No doubt,” I muttered, and at that he laughed, actually laughed out loud.
I blinked. “Are you laughing at me?”
He shook his head. “Not at you, sweetheart. You’re just fucking adorable. Now pick out some shoes and I’ll send the girl in to do your hair and make-up.”
I swallowed, meeting his gaze, and I said the only sensible thing I could. “Yes, sir.”