the thought makes me harder. I want them to know. I want them to hear how she begs for it. I want to enjoy the shocked looks on the other shoppers’ faces when I stride out, practically holding her upright because I’ve fucked her so hard her knees are weak.
But that will bring the press to her door. It will destroy the few shreds of privacy she has left after our disastrous meeting at Brimstone. The speculation surrounding us remains high, even though I’ve been careful to not be seen with her. It’s for the best. The media will eat her alive—or what’s left of her after my father gets through destroying her.
Still, that means I’ll have to find a more discreet way to see her. Dialing Norris, I touch base.
“Are you keeping an eye on Miss Bishop?”
“I have a man tailing her.” He sounds concerned, which is one of his three resting states. “She’s at a spa of some sort. Would you like me to meet her?”
“No.” There’s no point. I’ll have to tempt her away, and no matter who has his hands on her at the spa, I’m betting I can make her a better offer. “I was only checking in.”
“Very good.” Norris hesitates, and I know he wants to say more. It’s been off between us since I got back from the Middle East. He needs to know his opinion still matters to me. It does, but that won’t always mean I take his advice.
“Out with it.”
“Checking in on Miss Bishop belies a certain…”
“I’m not stalking her,” I tell him.
“That’s not what I’m suggesting.” His voice is so dry the connection practically crackles. “I hope you’re being cautious.”
“I think that I am,” I bite out. What does that mean? No one saw us together at the hotel. I’m not copying anyone on our text messages. I didn’t take her to a family dinner. “We’re being discreet.”
“I’m not concerned about when people find out,” he corrected me. “I’m concerned about your heart.”
“My heart?” I repeat, wondering where this came from. “My heart is the only bit of me that you don’t need to worry about.”
Silence stretches across the line before he finally clears his throat. “We’ll keep an eye on her.”
“Thank you.” I hang up the phone and glare out the window. Below me, millions of people are leading perfectly ordinary lives going to jobs, shopping, meeting friends for a pint. I have to justify wanting to fuck my girlfriend in private.
Girlfriend. I let the word sink in. I don’t hate it as much as I thought I would. Mostly because it suggests ownership, and I want to own Clara Bishop.
I send her another text:
There’s a window in this room that would benefit from having your naked body spread across it.
It takes her a moment to respond. When she does, I groan. Apparently, she’s going to tease me back.
I’m already naked.
I pop off another: Tell me more.
What I actually want is to tell her to get knickers on and tell whoever’s hands are on her to shove off. That body belongs to me.
There’s no response after a few minutes, and my mind flashes to a muscular man kneading her tender, flawless skin. It seems prudent to remind her that I don’t share:
As long as no one else is touching you, poppet. That’s my job, and I take my job very seriously.
Her response is frustratingly brief:
Noted, X.
I like her dirty little nickname for me almost as much as I like the one I’ve given her. Poppet—that’s what she is. She lets me play with her, lets me direct her, lets me pull her strings.
I want to see how far I can take that. I want to feel the vibration of my palm when it makes hard contact with the soft flesh of her ass. I want to tie up those slender wrists and fuck her mouth.
I want my hands on her.
But I have to wait until this bloody lunch date is over. I order room service, giving up on getting myself off. When you’ve had champagne, it’s hard to go back to water.
The game between us progresses throughout the day. I imagine her stealing glances at her phone and trying to hide her blush. She can’t. I know exactly how pink flushes her cheeks when she reads them. It’s the same shade that lovely ass of hers is going to turn when I show her all the other ways I can pleasure her later.
Lose your knickers, I order her