"The panties too, sweetness," he whispers roughly, his voice sending little darts of electricity flickering across my skin.
Sucking in a deep breath, I push my fingers into my panties, easing them down my hips and giving my bottom a little wiggle as they round my backside and drift to the floor.
His eyes are still locked on mine. He hasn’t looked down at my now completely naked body and something about his control unsettles me. I felt no such restraint when it came to perusing his body. My eyes had greedily soaked in every detail.
I never expected to be physically attracted to the man who purchased me, and I know it will only complicate things for me. It’s disheartening knowing I don’t have the same effect on him. Maybe he’s not impressed.
But finally, his eyes begin a slow descent, wandering down my body like we have all the time in the world, and his tongue wanders out to meet his bottom lip.
His gaze settles on my breasts. They feel so full and heavy they’re practically throbbing. Does he want me? I’m not sure why that matters to me, but suddenly I know that it does. My self-esteem has never been entirely robust, but it’s never been completely lacking either. Yet there’s something about standing nude before a rich, powerful, sinfully attractive man that makes me want to measure up.
Drake swallows, the bulge in his throat bobbing, before lowering his eyes to my bare juncture between my thighs. I want to press my legs together, but I remain steady. Heat zips through me as his gaze rises, glancing up to meet my eyes again. That’s it? He ordered me to strip just to look at me?
But then my gaze lowers and I see the long, thick erection rising in his pants. The only indication that he likes what he sees. Then why won’t you do something about it? The errant thought flashes through my brain, along with a catalog of erotic images – his full mouth at my throat, the feel of his large palms cupping my breasts as his thumbs move over the sensitive peaks. I would grip his solid arms, lay my head against his warm chest and come undone as his cock, that I know from experience is hot and hard, nudges restlessly at my center. A warm shiver races up my spine and I swallow down a helpless whimper.
"What do you like to sleep in?" he asks, his voice completely composed and unshaken.
"Usually a t-shirt and pajama pants," I say, digging my big toe into the plush carpeting.
He nods and heads for the closet, retrieving a gray t-shirt and a pair of cotton pants for me. They’re both a size large – but they’re soft and comfortable as I slide them over my overheated skin. I ball my discarded clothes into a pile and wonder where I’m supposed to put them. I have nothing here – no belongings, no sense of purpose and the realization is dizzying. I shouldn’t have been focused on tempting him with my curves. I needed to be clear-headed and figuring out how to survive in my new life.
Drake enters the bathroom and closes the door behind him, giving me a chance to wander the large suite uninterrupted. I pad across the floor toward the closet and realize that I’ve never felt carpeting so thick and soft before. It’s like it’s padded underneath with pillows of cotton. It’s heavenly. A slight smile curls on my lips. At least I’m able to find some silver lining in this crazy situation. I live in a freaking mansion. And besides, it could be a lot worse.
As I wander toward the closet, I can’t help but notice the faint scent of women’s perfume that clings to the interior of the bedroom. The scent is stale, but it’s still present. Lingering like a mystery. I wonder briefly who the perfume belonged to.
The large walk-in closet is bigger than my bedroom back home. One half is filled with designer suits in various shades of black, navy, gray and pinstripes, a rolodex of ties in every color hangs from one wall, neatly folded stacks of cotton shirts rest on built-in shelves along with various men’s items. A stray watch, a leather portfolio, cuff links, loose change. But the main thing that stands out to me is that one entire half of the closet has been emptied out – just a few loose padded hangers remain along with a red silk camisole dangling from one of them haphazardly.
I wonder what happened to the owner of the perfume and the camisole. He said I was his first sex slave, so perhaps she was an ex-girlfriend. My brain fills in the details, giving him the benefit of the doubt too much, I’m sure, but I imagine his failed romantic relationship is due to his vigorous work schedule and his closed off nature. Enter his need for someone like me. Regular sex without the commitment of an actual relationship. I push the useless theories from my head, knowing they won’t do me any good. I’m stuck here with him, regardless of his background and issues, and I have to make the best of it.
A big part of me wants to believe he’s a nice, normal guy who’s been through something tragic that pushed him into hiring a sex slave, but the truth is, I have no idea. He could be a crazed psycho with a penchant for too rough sex and kink I’ve never even imagined. Yay, me.
I stuff my wadded up clothes into an empty basket on the shelf of the closet and return to the bedroom. I grab my phone from my purse and sit down on the bed.
I send a quick text to my mom, and then Becca letting them both know I’ve decided to visit a friend in LA and will be out of town for a while. I know it’s low – letting them know through text message that I am essentially a runaway, but I hope they’ll understand. There’s too much pressure at home. Taking a spur of the minute vacation isn’t outside the realm of possibility. In fact, they’ll both probably be happy.
Becca’s text back is a smiley face, followed by a note that I should have a hot fling with a surfer and then tell her all the gory details. My mom’s return text simply asks when I’ll be home and I responded honestly – that I don’t know, but probably not for a while. It scares me to think about what could happen to Becca in the time I’m away. In the in the morning, I’ll let her know about the money.
The bathroom door opens and Drake is standing there expectantly. He’s dressed in just his black boxer shorts I got a peek at earlier and his body still has the ability to make my jaw unhinge, but I’m more prepared for it this time. I keep my expression neutral, even though I’ve never seen such sculpted pecs and an eight-pack outside of men’s fitness magazines. He is positively lickable.
I stuff my phone back in my purse and rise from the bed. I’m curious about the sleeping arrangements he’s envisioned. We’re in his master bedroom…so does that mean?
He pulls back the soft-looking white puffy down comforter and folds back the sheet. "Companionship is part of the deal for me. I don’t like sleeping alone," he says, as if reading my thoughts.