Lord of Rain (The Dragon Demigods #5) - Charlene Hartnady Page 0,66

help it. I don’t find this remotely funny.

There are clauses referring to sex in public places. Sex during work hours. Sex outside of work hours.

The next clause has me clutching my chest. I take another glug of champagne. I need to step away from this agreement for a few minutes. I need to go and take a cold shower. Instead, I go and check on the roasting bird. It’s done. Although chicken doesn’t need to rest before eating, I cover it with a lid and sit back down. I need to read all of this before I can eat anything.

I can’t believe this is an actual clause in a contractual document. I’m floored. I reread the clause. It pretty much states that I will orgasm every time we have sex. Each and every time. How can this be a condition? How can Bolt possibly guarantee something like this? And yet it’s here, in black and white. The second part of this clause is just as unbelievable; that I will orgasm first every time. Bolt is literally not permitted to orgasm unless I’ve done so, otherwise he’s in breach of the contract.

He wasn’t lying when he said that I was in the driver’s seat. I smile. Then I laugh. If someone saw me now, they’d think I had gone totally batty.

This next part of the contract has me going cold. My back goes right up. My eyes bug out of my head. He wants to give me an allowance on top of my salary. To do with as I please. Having said that, it goes on to list things like waxing, lingerie, sex toys, spa treatments, hair, nails, etc.

Do me a favor!

I don’t like it.

It makes me feel icky.

From there, things go downhill fast. In fact, it’s a freefall. It’s disgusting. It’s wrong. It’s the final clause that has me downing most of my wine. I put my glass down so hard that it almost breaks. If that bastard thinks I’m going to sign this, he has another think coming.

Bolt was right. He is an asshole. Possibly the biggest asshole I have ever met. I send him a text.

Me: I’m going to be late tomorrow!

That’s it. I don’t ask permission. I tell him. I’m shocked when those dancing balls come up, indicating he is writing me a message. It’s like he was sitting by his phone waiting for me to text him.

Bolt: Sure thing, take all the time you need. Let me know when you’re ready to talk.

I roll my eyes. I put the contract back into the envelope. I have to work not to throw it in the trash where it belongs. Then I pack up my amazing dinner. There is no way I’m going to be eating a single bite tonight. My stomach feels like it’s full of rocks. I know it’s wrong, but I pour what’s left in my champagne flute down the drain and put the bottle in the fridge. I need a clear head for the conversation I’m going to have tomorrow.

The next morning…

I knead the dough, putting everything I have into it. I knead and knead and knead. I know that if I don’t stop soon, I will overwork it. Begrudgingly, I force myself to stop. It needs to rest for an hour, and then I get to punch all the air bubbles out. I can’t wait. I might just pretend that the dough is his face.

“It didn’t do anything to you,” Simon says.

“What was that?” I look over at him.

“I said that the dough didn’t do anything to you. It certainly doesn’t deserve that angry stare or the low growl you just gave it.” He chuckles. “You reminded me of a rabid dog just then.”

I didn’t realize I was even doing it. “Oh.” I force a smile. “Kneading dough is therapeutic, and I’ve missed it.”

“Aha! I thought so. Something is clearly up. Are you ready to talk yet?”

I stormed into the bakery this morning…early. I told everyone to pretend I wasn’t there. I’ve had a few odd stares from my mom and Simon, but so far, everyone has been nice enough to leave me alone.

“No.” I shake my head. “Thanks, though.” I put the dough into a bowl, cover it, and put it into a cupboard near the oven to rise. It’ll be nice and warm in there.

I think of making another batch of cupcakes next – the ones with sprinkles on them – but that just gets me angry all over again because