Arrogant Master (Arrogant #2)(33)

"Dane," she sighs.

I pull out and drag my fingertips along her legs, un-cuffing her ankles and then traveling to her wrists. When she's free, she pulls off her blindfold and offers me the most delirious smile.

"You're not to call me Dane." I shouldn't have to remind her twice. Sure, the woman is coming down from the most intense orgasm she's ever experienced in her life, but it's no excuse. "Not in bed. In bed, I'm your master."

She climbs off the bed. "You just screwed me. I can't call you by your first name?"

Her arms fold across her chest, indicating the wind has suddenly changed directions. Lucky for us, I'm a skilled sailor who's met more storms than smooth seas. 

"Don't," I walk around the bed toward her, running my palms down her arms. "Don't ruin this beautiful moment with a tantrum."

"It's not a tantrum. I just don't understand. We're both adults. You had your cock inside me. I can't call you Dane?"

"Not during sex."

"That makes no sense."

"I'm still your Dom. You're still my sub. It makes perfect sense. Did you think something was going to change because I took you home with me?"

She refuses to look at me now. The sliver of moonlight peeking in through the break in the curtains paints a picture of a girl with a chip on her shoulder. I pull her into my embrace. I've given aftercare a million times, but never because of this.

"The sex," she says, her voice a mere whisper. "It wasn't how I expected."

"What did you expect?"

"I thought it would be rough. Cold. Painful even." She shivers against me, pressing her warm cheek against my bare chest. "You were gentle. It was … sweet almost."

Shit.

"You were a virgin. I wasn't going to rough you up. Anything beyond blindfolds and restraints would've traumatized you."

She pulls away. "Yeah. You're right. I was just reading into things. I'm sorry."

I take her chin, pointing her gaze in my direction until our eyes meet.

"Don't be sorry, Bellamy. It was a beautiful experience. You did very well. In fact, I think we can graduate you to the next level next time." I kiss her forehead and immediately miss her warmth when she pulls away.

"What time is it?" She glances around the dark room until her eyes settle on the soft glow of a bedside clock. "It's two in the morning. I have to go."

Bellamy scans the room in search of something.

"Looking for your clothes?" I ask.

I had Mathilde fetch them from the changing suite and bring them in here. "They're folded on the chair behind you."

She dresses and I fetch a pair of navy satin pajama bottoms and a clean white t-shirt from a nearby chest of drawers.

"Don't you ever get lonely in this big house all by yourself?" She gazes up to the vault in my ceiling and back down to me.

"I'm rarely alone, Bellamy. I have a staff of eight, friends who visit, that sort of thing."

"I mean, like, in your bed." Her eyes veer past me, landing on the spot in which I'd just claimed her.

"I don't think that way." I step toward her, running my hands down her arm and gently taking her by the elbow to lead her to the hall. "I'll walk you out. Your car should be waiting in the porte-cochere. Are you okay to drive? You're more than welcomed to stay at the estate tonight if you're too tired to drive. I have eleven guest bedrooms, and you may have your pick of any."

"I appreciate it." She pulls in a sigh, her shoulders rising and falling. "I have to get home before anyone knows I was gone."

"One of these days soon, you will be staying the night."

She offers a half-smile, and I follow her down the winding stairs and out the French doors to the circle drive where the Discovery is parked exactly where I told valet to leave it.

"Thank you for tonight." She brushes her hair behind her shoulders and wraps the strap around her small purse before tucking it under her arm. "At the risk of sounding cliché, it was pretty magical."

The full moon illuminates her creamy complexion, and her lips are begging to be kissed goodnight. But I refuse to send the wrong message over an impulsive desire. The tension between us needs to be severed before it gets out of control.



       
         
       
        

"I bet Randy Mutchler doesn't throw parties like this."

She smirks, tucking her chin against her chest but keeping her crystal eyes on me. "Ah, he has jokes."

Bellamy steps away, her heels clicking on the brick pavers, and I stand back as she climbs in and drives away. I head inside, trudging up to my room and climbing in my cold bed, running my palm against the indentation our bodies left against the covers.

The room was warmer with her in it.





TWENTY-SIX





BELLAMY



I pull up at precisely 2:55 A.M.

Curtains are pulled and all three houses are dark as can be.

Did I really pull that off?

I shut my engine off and climb out of my car, shutting the door with a soft shoulder push and not a slam. My heels come off, and I carry them as I tiptoe across the grass. With my key ready, I insert it centimeter by centimeter until it's all the way in, and then I slowly twist it to the right until I hear a faint pop.

I'm in.

My heart pounds. I'm an intruder on a mission. I lean against the door, shutting it gently, and slick my feet across the tile foyer until I reach the bottom of the stairs. I take the first step.

Creak.

My breath suspends for a second before I take the second.

Creak.

For living in this house all my life, I never realized just how noisy it was in the middle of the night.

I cross my fingers and take the rest of the steps two at a time and at a snail's pace. When I reach the top of the steps, I count ten more to reach my bedroom. It feels like five minutes has gone by when I finally reach my door, and the slick silver of the handle has never felt so good in my hand.

I made it.

***

"How was your Sunday?" I bring Dane a hot tea from the break room Monday morning though really I'm looking for an excuse to talk to him. I hadn't heard from him Sunday, not that I expected to, but the tiniest part of me hoped he'd send me some kind of message. Reassurance. Anything.

I'd never admit that to him. He'd laugh or accuse me of being ridiculous or worse: getting emotionally vested in something that's not there.

"I had a lovely Sunday, Bellamy," he says. "Thank you for bringing me coffee."

"It's tea."

"Right." He's focused on his computer screen. Distracted. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." My hands clasp across my waist, and I wait for his next command.

Dane releases his computer mouse and leans back in his seat, his stare washing over me as his lips straighten. "You may leave now."

"Oh." 

"I haven't got time to play this morning," he says.

"Oh. Okay." I couldn't hide the disappointment in my voice if I tried. Is this what it means to get 'bagged and tagged?' Is he done with me? Maybe the thrill and the chase is gone, and this is all that remains. "But you always want to play first thing in the morning."

"I'm going to New York this weekend," he says. "On business. I'd invite you, but I'm not going to have a spare moment, and I refuse to leave you all by yourself in a big city or I'd take you along."

My heart sinks. I've always wanted to see New York. "I understand."

"Trying to get my presentation completed." He lifts a stack of handwritten notes. "I can hardly read my own writing."

I glance down at the yellow legal pad covered in black scribbles. "Why don't I take this and type it out for you? I'd like to do some real work around here."

I reach for the pad, but his hand covers mine.

"Please. I'd be happy to," I offer once more.

The warmth of his hand leaves mine, and he blows a loud breath past his lips.

"Fine, Bellamy. Yes. Type those up. But I need them in a few hours. They want to see a copy of my notes before I present, and I need to go over everything with Beckham before that."

"Not a problem." I press the legal pad against my chest. "My father's a pharmacist. I'm well-versed in reading doctor handwriting. When I was younger, I used to help him at the store, and he'd make it into a game for me. If I could read what they wrote, I'd get so many points, and-"

"Adorable." He stands up, flattening his tie. "Two o'clock, Bellamy."

Maybe I'm imagining this.

Yes.

I'm imagining that Dane's pushing me away.

He's stressed. Preoccupied with his impending business trip.

I slink back to my room and pull up a Word document, typing his notes up as fast as humanly possible.

My desperation to please him is concerning.

Two hours later, I email him a beautifully formatted Word document complete with bullet points and headers.

He doesn't respond. Not even a "Very good, Bellamy" or so much as a "Thank you."

I allow myself to stew for a few minutes before marching into his office and striding up to his desk. But when I get there, I'm not sure how I'm going to say what I want to say without coming across like some psychotic girlfriend, which I'm pretty certain is exactly the kind of thing Dane's trying to avoid.

His dark brows lift. "Yes?"

"Did you get my email?"