blue-eyed gaze flashed in my head, and as I recalled the experience of grinding against him—again and again without release—I plunged into inevitable rapture, coming long and hard. A deep moan poured from my throat, and I spread my legs wider as my body cramped and shuddered. Heart pounding a deafening rhythm, I gave over to my release as it pulsed around my fingers. A blessed haze engulfed me, and I drifted to sleep a couple hours before the sun peaked through the blinds.
The blaring alarm interrupted an alternate replay of Gage and me in my dreams. There had been no cruelty, no hunger for power and dominance—he’d touched me with the gentlest patience and whispered the sweetest words, unlike the language he’d used over the weekend.
I want to fuck your ass.
Yes, dream-Gage had been ten times better than foul-mouthed, sadistic Gage with his demands and a whip to ensure I bowed to him. I got to my feet and began his mandatory hygiene regimen.
Bath oil in the water—check.
Wash and condition hair—check.
Shave underarms, bikini area, and legs from thigh to ankle—check.
Rub jasmine scented lotion over every inch of skin—check.
I’d have to stop by the department store on my way to work to pick up a pair of four-inch heels—another requirement. He even demanded I wear them to the hospital and while running errands. With a sigh, I ransacked my closet in search of a short skirt. A deep forage into my lingerie drawer produced a lacy bra and thong set I’d forgotten about long ago. I hadn’t worn such things in . . .
Shit, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d worn something so sexy. If Gage hadn’t promised to set up an account for me at Victoria’s Secret, I’d be in real trouble. As I moved toward the kitchen to turn on the coffee maker, a drift of cool air hit my ass. I hated thongs.
I hated Gage Channing even more.
I picked up the journal he’d given me and re-read his “rules . . .”
No masturbating.
Oops, already broke that one.
No dating, flirting, or touching/having sex with other men. No talking to men, unless work, errands, or hospital personnel require it.
Not likely to happen, since my social life was non-existent. A niggling thought bothered me. Ian might fall into this category. I couldn’t help my feelings for him, years ago buried but never forgotten, and I couldn’t help if I ran into him at the hospital. What was I supposed to tell him? That I wasn’t allowed to speak to him? Yeah, as if that wouldn’t raise a few questions, not to mention an eyebrow or two.
Must maintain hygiene regimen daily.
I already despised this rule.
Must always wear the collar.
The damn thing choked me, if not literally then figuratively. The thin strip of leather was a constant reminder that no matter how close freedom seemed within my grasp, it truly wasn’t.
Must follow the specified menu plan.
This one could be a problem, since most days I didn’t have an appetite at all.
Must wear four-inch heels, short skirts, and thong underwear at all times (work, hospital, errands).
Perverted bastard.
Must sleep naked.
Ditto.
2. O F F I C E P U N I S H M E N T
I was shaking by the time I exited the elevator, anxious and terrified of facing Gage again after what had happened between us over the weekend. The office bustled with the normal Monday morning activity I’d become accustomed to during my employment at Channing Enterprises. Katherine gave me her patented sugary smile as I stumbled toward Gage’s office in my new heels. I cursed the squished nature of my toes, and then cursed again when some of his coffee splashed onto my hand. Already on the verge of being late, I licked up the bitter liquid and hoped no one noticed. The caffeine went straight to the butterflies in my stomach; they fluttered with the energy of a crack addict. I knocked on his door and pushed it open upon his order to enter.
He sat behind his desk, a phone wedged between
The blaring alarm interrupted an alternate replay of Gage and me in my dreams. There had been no cruelty, no hunger for power and dominance—he’d touched me with the gentlest patience and whispered the sweetest words, unlike the language he’d used over the weekend.
I want to fuck your ass.
Yes, dream-Gage had been ten times better than foul-mouthed, sadistic Gage with his demands and a whip to ensure I bowed to him. I got to my feet and began his mandatory hygiene regimen.
Bath oil in the water—check.
Wash and condition hair—check.
Shave underarms, bikini area, and legs from thigh to ankle—check.
Rub jasmine scented lotion over every inch of skin—check.
I’d have to stop by the department store on my way to work to pick up a pair of four-inch heels—another requirement. He even demanded I wear them to the hospital and while running errands. With a sigh, I ransacked my closet in search of a short skirt. A deep forage into my lingerie drawer produced a lacy bra and thong set I’d forgotten about long ago. I hadn’t worn such things in . . .
Shit, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d worn something so sexy. If Gage hadn’t promised to set up an account for me at Victoria’s Secret, I’d be in real trouble. As I moved toward the kitchen to turn on the coffee maker, a drift of cool air hit my ass. I hated thongs.
I hated Gage Channing even more.
I picked up the journal he’d given me and re-read his “rules . . .”
No masturbating.
Oops, already broke that one.
No dating, flirting, or touching/having sex with other men. No talking to men, unless work, errands, or hospital personnel require it.
Not likely to happen, since my social life was non-existent. A niggling thought bothered me. Ian might fall into this category. I couldn’t help my feelings for him, years ago buried but never forgotten, and I couldn’t help if I ran into him at the hospital. What was I supposed to tell him? That I wasn’t allowed to speak to him? Yeah, as if that wouldn’t raise a few questions, not to mention an eyebrow or two.
Must maintain hygiene regimen daily.
I already despised this rule.
Must always wear the collar.
The damn thing choked me, if not literally then figuratively. The thin strip of leather was a constant reminder that no matter how close freedom seemed within my grasp, it truly wasn’t.
Must follow the specified menu plan.
This one could be a problem, since most days I didn’t have an appetite at all.
Must wear four-inch heels, short skirts, and thong underwear at all times (work, hospital, errands).
Perverted bastard.
Must sleep naked.
Ditto.
2. O F F I C E P U N I S H M E N T
I was shaking by the time I exited the elevator, anxious and terrified of facing Gage again after what had happened between us over the weekend. The office bustled with the normal Monday morning activity I’d become accustomed to during my employment at Channing Enterprises. Katherine gave me her patented sugary smile as I stumbled toward Gage’s office in my new heels. I cursed the squished nature of my toes, and then cursed again when some of his coffee splashed onto my hand. Already on the verge of being late, I licked up the bitter liquid and hoped no one noticed. The caffeine went straight to the butterflies in my stomach; they fluttered with the energy of a crack addict. I knocked on his door and pushed it open upon his order to enter.
He sat behind his desk, a phone wedged between
Similar Books
