Dane spins me around, placing my hands behind my back and wrapping the shirt around them, tying it tight. He bends me over my desk, his hands gripping the back of my hips.
"Who owns you?" He leans over me, the heat of his words warming my bare back. His fingers tug at my skirt, inching the fabric up until my thong-covered ass is exposed. He snaps the band of my panties, sending a sting rivaled only by the slap he gives my exposed cheek.
"You," I say, my cheek pressed against the cool wood of my desk. "You own me."
"And what am I?"
"My master."
His hips press into me, and the outline of his erection rubs against my bare flesh. The faint clink of his belt followed by the quick zing of his zipper sends a warmth between my legs before I have time to process what's happening.
The crinkle of a foil packet precedes the pressure behind me, as Dane presses his cock into me with one swift insertion. His thrusts are angry. Fast and prompt, like he's got somewhere to be. With my hands still tied, Dane takes me.
He doesn't speak.
He barely breathes and he certainly doesn't touch me more than he has to.
This is nothing like Saturday night.
Pressure builds between my legs thanks to the hot friction, but I know he's going to finish soon. This isn't about me. This is about him. And I get it. That's how it's supposed to be. I'm here to serve him, to pleasure him. I'm on the payroll solely for that purpose.
I just thought … maybe … things would be different after that first night.
Dane lets out a bottled groan and falls over me, pinning me to the desk for a moment before pulling out. He unties my wrists and places my shirt on the chair beside us.
He made his point.
It's just sex. That's all it was ever supposed to be.
***
"I've been asked to do some traveling for work," I say Saturday morning as I help my mothers prep breakfast.
"What kind of traveling?" Mom asks.
"Overnight traveling. Mostly going to different conferences in different cities to help set up or man booths and tables. Represent the company. Stuff like that," I say, whisking a dozen eggs in a mammoth bowl.
"You'll have to take that up with your father," Summer says. "Now that Cortland's out of the picture, he might think of you as a woman on the prowl."
I laugh. On the inside. On the outside I pout. "Can we not talk about him?"
I've been pretending to be sad since Wednesday when I returned from Bible study and promptly informed my parents that Cortland had officially ended our courtship for reasons I refused to discuss. When Waverly attempted to come to my rescue later that night, she came armed with a box of tissues and a mug of hot cocoa. I thanked her and made her swear up, down, and sideways never to breathe his name around me so long as she lives. I convinced her I was so heartbroken that his name should never be spoken around me, and I asked her to spread the word to the rest of the Miller clan.
"Yes, Bellamy," Mom says. "That's the last you'll hear us mention him. I promise. But you will need to discuss the work travel situation with your dad."
"Where's Kath?" I glance around, making sure she wasn't standing quietly in a corner somewhere. She has a tendency to blend in like wallpaper sometimes.
Mom takes a break from chopping green peppers, her eyes lowering. "She's dealing with a bit of an issue right now."
Summer shoots her a look. "I thought we weren't going to say anything until we had all the details?"
Mom swats her away. "The cat's out of the bag, Summer."
"Is someone going to tell me?"
"Kath has a son," Mom says. "His name is Jensen. He's eighteen. He'd been living in Arizona with his father for the last decade or so, and he's gotten into a bit of trouble. Apparently there was a physical altercation between Jensen and his father, and now Jensen's coming to live with us so he can finish out his senior year."
"He's coming tomorrow," Summer says. "Kath's a nervous wreck about it, so don't say anything. We're going to help her get her house in order and talk her down from the ledge."
"Why's she so nervous? He's her son?" I ask.
"Asking why Kath is nervous about something is like asking why the sky is blue. It just is." Mom shakes her head, chopping peppers with satisfying cracks of her knife and exchanging knowing smiles with Summer.
"You'll meet him at breakfast Monday," Summer says. "Just make him feel at home, Bellamy. He's family."
***
"I guess he was beaten up pretty badly," I say to Waverly the following Monday as I stir scrambled eggs over the stove. "Don't stare or anything."
"What happened?" she asks, placing a pitcher of orange juice on the table.
"It's none of our concern," Mom says.
"You're going to burn those," Waverly says. "You know how Dad gets about his eggs not being fluffy."
I sigh, clicking off the stove. I suppose my mind is elsewhere today. Maybe there was a time when I might be excited to see some fresh blood around here, but not now. My foot's already halfway out the door. Pretty soon, none of this will concern me. I'll be one-hundred percent independent. Making it on my own. Answering to no one.
Dane lingers in the forefront of my mind, where he seems to spend a lot of time lately. I'm enjoying my secret second life more than I ever thought I would. It doesn't even feel like work anymore.
Dane Townsend is quite possibly the only man on earth who can make the act of submitting intensely pleasurable.
I sprinkle some dill into the eggs and scrape them into a serving bowl while Waverly sets the table. Dad's at the head of the table, squinting at the fine print of the newspaper in his hand. He's a willful forty-eight-year-old man, refusing to wear reading glasses despite three wives who gently nag him about it.
Mom squeezes an extra chair at the end of the table for Jensen.
"Sorry we're late." Kath ushers her twins in. "Everyone, this is Jensen."
Jensen looks nothing like Kath. He's dark. Brooding. His muscles press against his tight t-shirt and his left eye is black and blue. He's not the kind of guy I'd ever want to cross, but the way the corners of his mouth seem to be permanently upturned in the shape of a half-smirk make him slightly less intimidating.
He zeroes in on Waverly, and I catch her squirm. She's super inexperienced in the dating department, naturally, and she's not used to being around many other guys our age.
Especially dark, handsome ones with muscles for days and a "don't give a fuck" attitude.
Jensen grabs a chair and plops down, still watching Waverly. I think he likes the way he makes her squirm from across the table.
Dad folds his paper. "Good morning, Jensen."
Jensen nods, not returning my father's greeting which I have to admit is ballsy. I take my phone from my pocket and check it under the table, half-ignoring Waverly fumbling with her empty orange juice cup and Jensen topping it off. The guy oozes sex, which is a bit concerning for an eighteen-year-old. He could be bad for Waverly, but I have faith that she'll remember he's our stepbrother and not some prospective distraction.
She's done so well. Graduation is weeks away. College is in three months. There's no way she's going to risk any of that for a bad boy with frivolous intentions.
I tune out the conversation, typing up a quick text to Dane, asking how New York was despite the fact that I'll see him in an hour. Part of me doesn't expect him to respond. We're not friends. I have no business sending casual texts like this. But the other part of me genuinely cares about what he's doing right now.
I wish I could've gone with him. I'm sure he's stayed at some fancy hotel with a balcony that overlooks the Hudson River. He could've bent me over that railing, and I'd have loved every second of it.
My cheeks redden as I realize I'm thinking about screwing my boss while my family is eating breakfast and discussing benign topics. My thoughts don't have a place in the here and now, but I'm not quite sure how to turn them off.
Besides, even if I could turn them off, I don't think I'd want to.
Dane Townsend is my escape in every sense of the word.
TWENTY-NINE
DANE
Six weeks.
That's how long Bellamy has been my submissive now.
I haven't made love to her since the first night, but I've fucked the hell out of her on a weekly basis since then. She's usually tied up, facing away from me. I can't look into her eyes when I'm plunging inside her. It messes me up. Makes the whole thing feel deeper than it should.
The discipline is waning as she learns exactly how to maneuver around me, what to say, and ways to anticipate my needs.
Bellamy Miller officially lives to serve me, and I should feel guilty handcrafting my perfect sub out of someone so green and naïve, but when I hear that exquisite, peaked breath as I gift her a sweet release, I know she's just as satisfied with this arrangement as I am.
And so it shall continue.
"You're coming to Nashville with me." I stay to her that particular Monday, leaning in her doorway.
She glances away from her computer where she's actually doing work now. I give her assignments, tedious, mind-numbing assignments everyone else claims to be too busy to complete, and she does them without so much as a single complaint. She even thanks me for the work and finishes most tasks on time if not exceptionally early.