Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 58412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
I wonder if I can make an excuse to leave. Perhaps I could tell him one of my friends is… no. He won’t go for it. He knows I’m up to something, because he found the notebook some-fucking-how.
I’m half-thinking that he knows everything, but surely if he knew everything, he’d be doing a lot more than fucking me roughly and taking me to dinner.
“Is it an actual dinner, or is it some kind of weird kinky thing?”
“You’ll be wearing a dress,” he says. “One I’ve had specially made.”
The dress is a gorgeous silver draped garment that sparkles and catches the light like a chandelier. It is low cut in both the front and the back. It reminds me of something you’d see on the red carpet—but with one significant change.
There’s a tail.
And on the inside of the dress, there is a rubber plug.
This is a gown, but it is also a butt plug.
I look at the dress, and then at Marcus, and then at the dress again.
“Don’t worry, pet,” he purrs. “I will help you put it on.”
He knows how to make me whimper, but I know I can’t get out of this just by sounding a little pathetic. He likes it when I’m afraid. He adores it when I consider begging him for mercy. There is no part of Marcus that tends toward the merciful. If anything, the more distress I show, the more he likes it.
“Go and get ready,” he says. “Remember, we will be very much out in public this evening. This is your one chance to control how you are perceived.”
As if he will not be the one who decides how I am displayed and what people think of me. I know that if he is going to humiliate me, it won’t matter how good my makeup looks.
I do as he tells me, because it gives me a moment to think.
How do you escape a billionaire with almost endless resources? I should have planned this better. I should have planned it at all, rather than making my move in a knee-jerk reaction to being punished for not listening to him. And possibly being party to fucking murder.
I still don’t know what happened to Trent. I will probably never know. He’s not the sort of guy who is going to get a lot of social media interest as a missing person. He’s estranged from his family, much like I am, and I don’t think he has any friends at all.
My mind keeps going back to how he looked in that chair, having had the hell beaten out of him by Marcus. He was furious, and so wound up he was ready to fight Marcus to the death. But that’s what would have happened. There’s not even a mark on Marcus Waterstone. If he did let Trent out of the bindings, he didn’t get into much of a physical fight.
I shower, and I pull the dress on. Then I start doing my makeup, trying to ignore the way the internal plug presses awkwardly against my tailbone as I contour my cheekbones. I’m opting for more, not less today. Cosmetics can be a shield, and that’s what I need them to be.
“You look beautiful,” Marcus says, stepping into the room with me. I turn to face him. For a moment, I think about forcing a smile, but then I decide not to bother. He already knows too much, and my trepidation about this evening is growing by the moment. There’s a gleam in his eye that I know better than to trust. He is enjoying himself. This is all a game to him, but he is the only one who is able to make any of the rules—or know them, for that matter.
“Thank you,” I say, trying not to give away how very nervous I am. I am sure I am failing on that front.
He has dressed up too, a suit with a waistcoat and a pocket watch—it’s not quite precisely the ensemble of an evil sheriff in a particularly dark Western, but it’s also not, not that. Whatever the inspiration for his fit, it makes my stomach clench down low in that way that makes my brain stop working as well as it needs to.
He is hot. Sinfully hot.
He is a devil-walking-in-this-world kind of hot. I feel my face flushing, though he won’t be able to see it through the foundation. I’m sure he knows anyway. There’s a smirk on his lips that makes me feel as though those dark eyes can pierce my consciousness.
“We need to get the dress fitted properly though,” he says. “Go and lie face down on the bed.”
It’s the last thing I’d usually do with a fresh face and my hair just done, but there’s no disobeying him. I do as I am told, being careful to keep my upper body off the mattress and bedding as much as possible.