He gets me. He wants what I do. I don’t want to be dominated—I’m not submissive enough for that—but that doesn’t mean I don’t want something a little spicier than normal sex. What Tyler just put into words, what he just described, is everything I want.
I want someone not afraid to tell me what they want, and I want someone not afraid to put those words into fucking action. I want someone real and raw who won’t treat me like I’m a fragile, little doll in bed. I want someone like Tyler.
“Are you working tomorrow night?” he asks before kissing me hard.
“No,” I whisper against him.
“Good.” He cups my jaw, and the way his thumb slides along the curve of it forces me to open my eyes. He stares into them, his gaze full of heat and anticipation and promise. “Be ready at six p.m.”
“Ready for what?”
His lips tug up on one side, his smirk sexy and dangerous, filled with promise. “Me.”
I have butterflies. They’re forceful, churning my stomach until I feel sick. I barely slept last night—my mind was full of contradictions over whether sticking this thing out with Tyler is the right thing to do. I went back and forward so many times that I’m pretty sure I have mental whiplash.
In the end, I decided that it’s too late. I’m done. I already agreed to see him tonight. I can’t back out for a second time. Besides, regardless of the numerous red flags waving like crazy in my mind, I want this.
And in the end, that’s all it comes down to.
My phone buzzes from between the sofa cushions. I dig it out and pull up the text from Tyler.
I saw Day’s pictures of you.
And?
And you should consider wearing that pink camisole tonight. And by consider, I mean put it on now.
And the stockings?
I’m not a fan of white. It’s too innocent. Tan ones. With those nude Louboutins.
I smile at the screen. It soon drops from my face when I see the time. He told me to be ready for six p.m. It’s five to six and I’m nowhere near ready. Shit.
I scramble up and run into my bedroom. I locate the camisole in my closet and pull it out, throwing it on my bed while I find some stockings. Damn, damn, damn… Where are they? I rifle through my underwear drawer, finding them tucked at the back. Flapping them to uncrease them, I drop them on the bed next to the camisole and strip off.
My buzzer goes and I run through my apartment and grab the phone. “Hello?”
“Hello, Miss Warren? I’m here to collect you on Tyler Stone’s behalf.”
He sent a car? I didn’t agree to this shit. “Um, I wasn’t aware he was sending anyone.”
“It was a last-minute decision, ma’am. Are you ready?”
I look at my mismatched underwear and lack of stockings or shoes. Or dignity, really. “Give me a few minutes.”
I hang up at his, “Of course,” and run back to my bedroom. My phone vibrates next to me on the bed as I put the right panties on.
Don’t be late, Liv.
Fuck off.
I grin as the message sends.
Bring a scarf…
Bring a scarf? His words from yesterday fill my mind—about tying me up—and my heart thumps. Shit. I feel a dampness between my legs at the thought and grab my long raincoat from the closet. I tuck a scarf into the pocket and smile.
He wants to play, I’ll play.
Angus is curled on the sofa, asleep in a patch of weak sun, and a quick check of his bowl verifies that it’s full of food. Well, there’s a first.
I slip my feet into my new shoes and decide to take the elevator instead of the stairs. I mean, who wants to fall down the stairs in shoes as pretty as these? Not me.
When I step outside, a sleek, black car is waiting for me. The driver, who I presumably spoke to on the phone, gets out of the car and opens the back door for me.
“Miss Warren. My name is Allen. I’m Mr. Stone’s driver whenever he requires our services.”
“Please, call me Liv.” I smile.
“Liv.” He returns my smile and motions for me to get in.
I do, settling back into the plush, leather seat of the BMW. Even this car reeks of wealth—of privilege. Of more than I’m used to.
I mean, shit. I’ve only recently upgraded my 2001 Honda to a 2010 Audi. This car doesn’t feel like it’s ever been driven before.
Are you coming yet?
I swing my legs up onto the seat, cross them at the ankles, then snap a picture. I send it to him with a grin on my face.
Tease.
My grin widens. I tuck the phone into the pocket of my coat and sit upright again just as the car comes to a stop. Of course—I forgot that his apartment was so close to mine, even if they are miles apart in terms of value.