Arrogant Master (Arrogant #2)(22)

Her jaw drops as her cheeks flush. "I can't do that."

"Pardon?"

"This dress is so short. I can't. I'll be exposed."

"If it's that big of a deal, use your safeword." I'm challenging her. "But this is an extremely minor, basic thing, of that you can be sure. I suppose now you're going to pretend to be all virtuous."

I toss back the Riesling sample and gaze around the restaurant, waiting for her to make up her mind.

"Fine." She slides out of the booth, tugging her dress down as she saunters to the restroom, returning five long minutes later.

"Let me see them."

Bellamy's fist is balled, and she extends it my way, dropping a crumpled lace panty in my lap. I tuck them in my inner jacket pocket and wait for her to take her spot once again.

My hand wastes no time gliding back up under her dress, and my cock hardens the second I feel the slickness between her thighs.

"You're so fucking wet," I moan into her ear, breathing in her salon-scented hair. Two fingers slide between her folds, pushing inside her and eliciting a soft gasp while my thumb massages her clit.

"Are we ready to order?" Our server returns and my fingers have no intention of leaving Bellamy's pussy anytime soon.

"Yes, please, I'll take the filet. Medium rare. House salad. She'll have the same." I hand him our menus with my free hand.

"Would you two like any bread with fresh olive oil and parm – "

"No," I cut him off, my fingers wriggling inside her clenched walls as her fingers dig into my forearm.

She sighs the second he walks off and tugs her bottom lip between her perfect teeth.

"Are you waiting for permission, Angel?" I whisper.

She nods.

"Good girl," I say. "Come like no one's watching. It's just you and me. We're the only ones here."

My thumb presses harder against her clit as my fingers push deeper, faster. Her chest heaves as her lips smash together, stifling the moans she refuses to release. Her hips buck against my fingers until her eyes roll back, and she collapses against my arm.



       
         
       
        

Her thighs go limp, and I retract my arm, studying the sweet flush of release that floods her glowing face.

"Thank you for not faking it that time." I scoot slightly and place my napkin over my lap.

Bellamy tilts her head. "What are you talking about?"

"I highly recommend you not lie about it." I tip up my empty glass and set it back down. "That wouldn't be good for you at all right now."

"I'm sorry." Her voice is hushed. "I was nervous."

I don't believe her, but I'm too mentally exhausted to psychoanalyze why she felt the need to do a poor rendition of a screaming porno orgasm.

"Whatever the reason, I don't particularly care. Just don't fake one again or I'll ensure you have five in a row that you absolutely will not be able to fake."

Forced masturbation isn't a kink of mine, but in this case it might serve as a rational deterrent.

Our food arrives piping hot and on time, and per my calculations our server is now looking at a three percent tip based on the seventeen times he's taken liberties at checking out my sub.

"Did you grow up around here?" She saws gracefully into her filet and forks a small sliver, bringing it to her rosebud lips.

"No," I say.

"Where are you from? Or how did you wind up in Salt Lake City?"

"Here in Utah. And it's just the way it happened, Bellamy. How is your steak?"

"Amazing," she says. "Where'd you go to school?"

"This isn't a Q and A session nor is it a getting-to-know-you date," I remind her before remembering to soften my delivery. I slid my hand across the tablecloth, covering hers. "Let's just enjoy our meal, shall we? The chef who prepared this meal is co-owner of a Michelin star restaurant in Chicago."

The questions stop, and as I requested, we enjoy our meal together in silence. After paying the check and escorting her to the chauffeured town car I reserved just for her, I lean over and kiss her cheek. It's the second time I've done it this afternoon, and I normally don't make a habit of showing many displays of affection if any at all, but she's been awfully quiet since I nixed her benign interrogation. And while it wasn't a sexual act of any kind, I'll offer her a small amount of aftercare in the form of a kiss and some reassurance.

"I had fun with you this afternoon. I needed this." I brush her arm. "You did well in there."

"We didn't do anything for you," she says, her clear blue eyes match the sky this afternoon.

"Everything in there was for me."

My driver pulls up behind her waiting car. 

"Tomorrow night," I say. "Press the home button on the GPS of the Discovery. It'll take you to Golden Oak. Call me when you pull up to the gate, and bring your overnight bag."

"Oh, I didn't realize it was an overnight thing." She places a pointed finger in the air as if to stop me from going quite yet.

"Oh? I thought I'd made it clear before?" I widen my stance, unwilling to accept her refusal.

"I can still stop over, I might just need to leave in the middle of the night to get home before the sun comes up."

"Bellamy, you're not going to have the strength to drive home after I'm done with you. And you'll be sleeping with me that night. My room is being prepared, and I'm having several items delivered to make your stay especially enjoyable."

"It's not that I don't want to." Her gaze lands on the sidewalk.

For a moment, I'm hit with a Jenessa flashback. I'm punched in the gut all over again, but I refuse to believe sweet, sultry Bellamy is half the devil incarnate she was.

"This is not up for debate. You belong to me. You'll do what I say. End of discussion. I'll see you Saturday night."

I climb into the back of my Town Car and instruct the driver to take me back to the funeral home so I can finish planning my uncle's burial with Beckham. After a whirlwind of a shitty week, the only thing I have to look forward to is being balls deep in Bellamy's sweet as sin pussy tomorrow night.

Dare I say I'm impressed with myself for waiting? The old me would've wasted no time plunging my cock into that tightness. Something told me she'd be worth the wait.

As we head across town, I take my phone out to check my email. A call comes in when I'm halfway done scrolling through a quarterly statement from my accountant, and for a second, I debate pressing the ignore button, but then I realize it's my guy.

My background guy.

"That was quick," I say when I answer. "Please tell me she's clean as a whistle."

"Describe clean as a whistle," he says.

My heart stops for a second and restarts when we hit a pothole in the road. "Don't fucking scare me like that."

Last time, he alluded to digging up some dirt on Jenessa, but I never imagined just how dirty it would be.

"Well, she is who she says she is, so that's good. No known aliases. Graduated from Whispering Hills High five years ago. Birthdate checks out. Social security number. All the basics are fine and good." He stops for a second and pulls in a sigh. "Had to go pretty deep with this one, check out some of her family members."

"And?"

"Well, turns out her father is a card-carrying member of the Apostolic United Brethren. She comes from a poly family, Dane. Looks like there are three wives. Several children. But they're shacking up Main Street style, hiding in plain sight from the rest of the world. Her dad's a pharmacist..."

I set the phone down as he yammers on about mundane details. I tuned everything out after he mentioned the AUB.

"Dane?" he calls. "Dane, you still there? You okay?"





EIGHTEEN





BELLAMY



"Go say hello to your future in-laws." My mother elbows me in the back as she carries a giant bowl of potato salad out the back patio sliders. "You're standing around like you're shy, but you're coming off as rude."

She's wearing her clown lipstick again. I suppose it makes her feel special, or maybe it makes her standout amongst the younger wives. Either way, I'm fully prepared for her to prance around like some made-for-TV mom and feign excitement when she swaps recipes with Cortland's mom and the other McGregor sister wives.



       
         
       
        

She lives for this stuff, and it's only gotten worse since we moved away from our old ward and stopped going to our old church where she had an 'in' with a handful of church cliques.

"Judy, is it?" I hear her say sweetly to one of Cort's moms. "Hi, I'm Jane. I'm Bellamy's mother. Mark's first wife."

On any other planet …

I tune her out as I stir the punch. The mountain of orange sherbet refuses to melt with the ginger ale, but that's okay. I'm not going outside until this punch is damn good and ready. My hand reaches for my side pocket, feeling for the rectangular outline of my phone. The clock above the kitchen sink reads twelve-fifteen, and twelve hours from now I'll be behind the walls of Dane's Golden Oak estate. I can only imagine how lavish it is. Knowing him, every square foot of that place is elaborately outfitted from the floors of his foyer to the shelves of his refrigerator. There's something inherently sexy about a man who pays attention to detail and has an affinity for the finer things in life.