It’s time to set some rules. “No apartment,” I say. “You’re moving into my house.”
“Where’s that?”
I start to laugh, but then I realize she has no idea. Her entire knowledge about me can be summed up in three points. One: I’m working for her father. Two: I got the upper hand at Banque Wagner. Three: I can make her come three times in less than an hour because I’m the perfect Dom for her submissive little heart.
Heart has nothing to do with it. She wasn’t lying when she said she hates me. And aside from the fact that I can’t wait to tie her up again, I’m not too happy with her, either. Her Red Cap games cost me real clients. She remains a true threat to Lone Wolf.
“Where do you live?” she asks, a surprising note of panic edging her voice. She’s read my distraction as hesitation to tell her some terrible truth.
My laugh comes out as a short, sharp bark. “DC,” I say. “Georgetown.”
She relaxes almost imperceptibly. I wonder what she thought I’d answer.
Back to my rules.
“You’re moving into my house,” I say again. “And once you’re there, you won’t antagonize your father.”
“Define antagonize.”
“Whatever you’re thinking about doing right now.” I go on. “And you won’t upset any current or potential business prospect of mine.”
“Send me a client list, and I’ll let you know.”
Nice try. “Fuck with my work, and I’ll take away your computer. And your phone. And any other device you have that connects to the web.”
She swallows. That threat means more than anything I can do to her body.
“You’ll present as my wife in public, making nice with anyone I’m trying to please.”
She yawns and rolls her eyes, which should be tricky to do at once, but she makes it look like an art form.
“And you’re sleeping in my bed.”
“No.”
“That’s not open for negotiation.”
She opens her mouth. Closes it. Starts to speak again but gets distracted when her fingertips find her wrist. She’s thinking about what I did with a terrycloth tie. What I did with my belt.
The blush that paints her cheeks is gorgeous.
“I get to keep my safeword,” she finally says.
“Always.”
It takes her a long time to nod. Then she says, “You’ll move Granny out of here. To somewhere in Georgetown.”
“Done,” I say.
“You’ll give me an office, a room in your house. A computer and internet too.”
“Done.”
“And you agree to sleep with the lights on.”
She makes the demand like it’s the least of her concerns; she can take it or leave it. But she rubs her leg as she says it—two fingers, barely stroking her jeans, a few inches above her knee, where she bears her oldest scar from cutting.
She’s not aware she’s doing it. She doesn’t have a clue how I can use that tell against her.