Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 86510 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86510 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
Opposite the bed is my living area. A modest-size futon sits against the wall, and in the corner is a small entertainment center that holds a flat-screen TV. The kitchenette is laid out along one side of the studio and has a compact refrigerator, a two-burner stovetop with oven, and a microwave. My dining area is a tiny table with two chairs.
I walk the few steps to the kitchenette. “Would you like some water or anything? I’m afraid I don’t have much alcohol, and definitely no Scotch.”
“No, I’m fine. I won’t keep you.”
I don’t know whether I’m relieved or disappointed. “Okay.”
“I’m going to call you first thing in the morning,” he says. “Be ready to tell me that you’re going.”
My cheeks warm.
He advances on me, caresses my cheek. “We both know you want to go, Mary.”
Electricity sparks straight to my pussy. “Who wouldn’t want to go?”
“If you do choose to go,” he says, “it’s all on me. The hotel, the plane fare, everything. Separate rooms, of course.”
I hold back a gasp. “I can’t allow you to spend that kind of money on me.”
“Consider it a gift.”
“From a man I hardly know?”
“From a man who wants to know you very much.” He tips my chin. “I don’t even know your last name.”
“It’s Sandusky,” I babble. “My first name is actually Mariah. I’ve been called Mary my whole life. I already told you all this, didn’t I?”
The almost-smile again. “Thank you for trusting me with your last name.”
“I trust most Dominants who come into Black Rose. I know their vetting process. I know you’re a good man, Ronan.”
Besides, he hasn’t so much as tried to kiss me.
I’m squirming just thinking about it—those firm lips on mine, prying them open, his tongue diving into my mouth.
But he’s being a complete gentleman.
And my God… That makes me want him even more.
“Good night.” He traces his finger over my bottom lip.
I tilt my face upward, close my eyes, and wait…for those lips…
But he leaves, closing the door behind him.
I sigh, clicking my deadbolt, and then I lean against the door and slide down until I’m sitting on the floor.
Damn.
…
I don’t set my alarm on Sunday mornings, but I wake to the sun streaming through my window. I check the time on my phone.
Nine a.m.
Perfect. I can call Trish to see if I can get some time off.
“Hey Siri, call Trish McMaster.”
The phone rings once, twice, three times.
“Mary?”
“Hi, Trish. I’m sorry to bother you on a Sunday.”
“That’s no problem. What can I do for you?”
“This is going to sound a little bit out of the blue, but I was wondering…is there any way I can have tomorrow off? Maybe the week?”
A pause. She’s going to tell me to get fucked, and I don’t blame her. Who do I think I am, anyway, asking for time off one day in advance to go off to NOLA with some guy I just met?
Finally, “You haven’t taken any vacation yet this year, Mary, so you’ve got a lot of time available. Normally you give me a lot more notice, though.”
My heartbeat accelerates. “I know. It’s just that something has come up, and I really do need the time off.”
She sighs. “All right. You never ask for any favors, so I’ll make this work. But no more than a week, okay?”
A weight floats off my shoulders, but some anxiety about this impulsive decision remains. “You’re the best, Trish. Absolutely. No more than a week. It might be less. I’ll let you know.”
“I appreciate that. Is there anything else you need?”
“No. And thanks again.”
I end the call, and then I rise and pad the few steps into my small kitchenette where I start a pot of coffee.
Then I laugh out loud.
I just got a week off, and sure, Ronan said he was serious, but is he? I’m ready to jaunt off to a strange city with a man I hardly know.
A man I trust completely and implicitly.
What a strange life I lead.
If I don’t hear from Ronan today, I’ll simply call Trish back and say that my plans fell through. Not a big deal—
I jump at a knock at my door. Who the hell? On a Sunday morning?
I’m wearing shorty pajamas—pink and white. I walk to the door in my bare feet and look through my peephole.
I gasp.
Ronan O’Connor stands there.
“Ronan?” I say through the door.
He holds up a white paper bag. “I brought bagels.”
I unhook my chain, unlock my deadbolt, and open the door. “What are you doing here?”
He walks in without an invitation. “Bringing bagels. Did you have breakfast yet?”
“No, but why are you—”
“I told you I would call first thing in the morning about our trip to New Orleans. I upgraded that to an in-person call with breakfast. Did you work it out?”
Suddenly, I’m feeling shy. My cheeks warm, and part of me doesn’t want to tell Ronan that I worked it out. I feel like I’m being too bold.