Wicked Billionaire - Sawyer Bennett Page 0,43
She hadn’t been there before, and I enjoyed her slack-jawed, wide-eyed response as she took in the various inner rooms with kinky shit playing out in them.
We took a break, sat at the bar—her in all her naked glory—and slowly sipped fresh drinks. I explained the stuff she didn’t understand—a woman on a St. Andrew’s cross—and learned more about her limits. She seemed a bit cagey about bringing in other people to play with us, but I’m okay with that. There is plenty of other stuff—an unlimited amount—we can explore until we get bored with each other.
We ultimately ended up in one of the glass-walled rooms, and I put her in a harness that hoisted her off the floor to hover at any height I wanted. Cock level so she could suck on me, chin level so I could eat her out. Lower so I could fuck her. People watched from outside the glass walls as I fucked her while still suspended from the ceiling.
But where do we go from here?
Bailey watches me with a bland expression, digital pen poised over the iPad. We worked together all day—seamlessly and with the utmost professionalism. I almost have myself convinced this can work for as long as I want it to.
“Please move my dinner appointment back half an hour,” I clip out, looking at the calendar on my laptop. “Marianne needs some time to go over the operations budget. I need you to run last quarter’s P&L, then compare it to the same quarter last year. Something’s not adding up. Afterward, run up to my suite, grab one of my navy suits, and pick a tie to match. Finally, cancel my car service for the evening. I’ve decided to drive.”
She doesn’t hesitate, scribbling a few notes before turning on her heel. “Right away.”
Bailey makes it two steps before I stop her. “Miss Robbins.”
Halting, she glances back. “Yes?”
“Meet me at the club at eleven.” I focus my attention on my laptop, effectively dismissing her.
“I’m sorry,” she replies, her tone making me lift my head. “But I can’t tonight.”
Not understanding, I say, “Excuse me?”
“I have plans tonight,” she says simply, and doesn’t offer any further explanation.
“What plans?”
Her head tips to the side, her smile slightly bland. “I have something I have to do and won’t be able to make the club tonight. But maybe tomorrow night.”
I don’t like this. Being denied, I mean.
I also don’t like how beyond curious I am about what could be more important than delving back into the sinful luxury of The Wicked Horse.
Yet, I refuse to point-blank ask. Instead, I inquire, “Any chance you could cancel your plans?”
Her smile turns almost sympathetic, which I don’t like either. She feels sorry for me, but her reply is firm. “I can’t. I’m spending the evening with my mom. She’s not feeling well, and my dad isn’t the most responsible person. It’s probably not necessary, but I’d feel better if I did.”
Well, that doesn’t quite make sense to me either. The way she worded it made it seem like it isn’t serious. Plus, it sounds like she has a perfectly capable father. And not only that, needing to provide parents that type of support is beyond my comprehension. My parents would probably rather die than ask my sister or me to care for them if ill. That’s what private doctors and nurses are for.
The man I am—who I have been for thirty-six years—should wave her off and make plans for another evening later. But fuck if I’m not even more curious than before.
“What’s wrong with your mother?” I ask. And then feel the need to explain my nosiness. “It’s just… it seems a little unusual for a woman your age, and by that I mean fairly young, to have to look after her parents.”
Bailey nods in understanding, pulls her iPad into her chest, then crosses her arms over it. “My mother’s disabled with significant lung issues and dependent on oxygen. She’s having a problem keeping her oxygen levels up. I’ll feel better if I spend the night watching over her.”
That fucking sucks. I don’t have a clue how old Bailey is—I’m guessing mid-to-late twenties. Her mom is most likely not that old. But I suppose lung disease doesn’t discriminate based on age. I now have more questions, though. “And your dad isn’t a reliable provider?”
Her smile slides away. She ponders the question before lifting her gaze to mine, resolute and slightly frustrated. “My dad—whom I love dearly—comes with his own set of