Chapter 15

CHAPTER 15

Brynn

It’s not until the following weekend that my new life catches up to me. Somehow, we escaped the tabloids at dinner on Saturday night. Either no one took pictures, or they chose not to share them with the universe.

It’s apparent that word got out that Asher Bennett has a girlfriend, though. Paparazzi start hanging around outside his building. People look at me too long when I pass them at school. I know there are pictures. Rumors.

We went out to dinner on Wednesday night and weren’t quite as lucky.

It’s not as though we’re hiding our fake relationship. The entire reason he hired me was to convince the world he was off the market. Hiding won’t help him reach his goal.

By the end of Friday, I feel like every person I pass is staring at me. It’s not until I’m on my way toward the SUV, where Charles is waiting to pick me up, that someone has the balls to say something.

The voice comes from my right. “Hey, you’re the chick who’s dating Asher Bennett, aren’t you?”

I glance to the right to find two college guys leaning against a car in the parking lot. They’re staring at me and laughing. Why do they care who I’m dating?

“Why don’t you give us a try? Two for one,” one of them shouts.

I ignore them and hurry toward the SUV, where Charles has seen me and is now out of the car, opening the back door for me. He notices my haste and glances toward the guys. “Are you okay, ma’am? You look scared.”

“I’m fine.” I breathe better after I’m in the SUV.

Charles rounds to the driver’s side and climbs in. As soon as we’re alone, he looks at me in the rearview mirror. “Were they harassing you, Ms. Flores?”

“Charles, call me Brynn. And no. They just asked me if I was dating Mr. Bennett. I ignored them.” It was harmless, wasn’t it? I’m overreacting. It’s just strange to be recognized by people I don’t know.

“You’re upset.”

I rub my arms. “It was just weird. Why do they care who I’m dating?”

“I’m not sure, but Mr. Bennett isn’t going to like hearing this.”

“Then let’s not tell him.” I shudder. If he finds out someone harassed me, there’s no telling what he might do. I won’t take the risk of him increasing my security or ordering me not to attend my classes.

Charles furrows his brow as he pulls away from the curb. “I can’t do that, ma’am. He pays me to make sure you’re safe. If someone is bothering you, I have to let him know.”

I sigh. I know he’s right. I can’t ask Charles to lie. “I know,” I murmur as I slouch in the seat. I suspect I’m in for a rough evening.

The rest of the drive is quiet, but as soon as we pull into the parking garage, I say, “Let me tell him, okay?”

“I can honor that if you’re going to do it as soon as we get inside.”

“Deal. Thank you.” I wait for him to come around and let me out because it makes him testy when I open the door before he can get there.

As with every other day this week, Mr. Bennett is waiting for me at the elevator when I come in. It’s no secret that he’s put a tracker on my phone. It gives him peace of mind to know where I am, and since I don’t go anywhere but class, frankly, it gives me peace of mind, too, especially if weirdos are going to start harassing me.

“What’s wrong?” he asks as soon as I step out of the elevator.

I roll my eyes. “Are you psychic?”

He takes my backpack and leads me through the penthouse and into my room, where he shuts the door, sets my bag next to my desk, and faces me with his hands on his hips. “Talk.”

I sigh. “Some guys asked me if I was dating you as I was getting in the SUV. It was no big deal—except they gave me the heebie-jeebies.”

Mr. Bennett frowns. “Doesn’t sound like it was no big deal. What did you tell them?”

“Nothing. I ignored them.”

Mr. Bennett drops his hands and approaches me. Without a word, he removes my jacket and heads toward the closet to hang it up.

I bend down and unzip my cute low boots. I’ve suddenly got the most stylish wardrobe of any student on campus. That alone causes people to look at me. After nearly four years of worn jeans, old sneakers, and a rotation of very few sweaters and sweatshirts, I now arrive every day in style with enough clothes that I’ll rarely be wearing the same thing twice.

My existence is peculiar, and I’ve grown oddly comfortable with it. If I spend much time thinking hard about my life, I grow confused, so I try not to overanalyze things.

In my new world, I’m removing my clothes and handing them to Mr. Bennett while he asks me questions about my day and classes. As if it’s perfectly normal and we’re an old married couple, he turns me around and unfastens my bra before kissing the back of my neck. Still standing behind me, he slides my thong over my hips and down my legs.

I’m naked as he asks me how my last day of work at The Grind went.

I look over my shoulder and shoot him a glare as he drapes a silk robe over my shoulders. He knows perfectly well how my day went because he came in to get coffee twice and stayed half an hour both times. He sat at his favorite table in the corner, smirking.

I gave my two-week notice on Monday morning, and my boss was disappointed to see me go, but she didn’t ask any questions until I appeared in the tabloids. Yesterday, she called me into her office, sat me down, and asked me point blank if it was true. Was I dating Asher Bennett?

I confirmed the validity of the lie, and she nervously told me I did not need to come in the following week. The woman felt bad for making me continue to work my early shift, even though my boyfriend—one of Seattle’s richest, most eligible bachelors—sat and watched.

I insisted I did not want to leave her in a lurch, and she was grateful for my integrity, but she still told me today could be my last day. At first, I was insulted, but then I realized she had actually made a bit of a sacrifice.

By today, the publicity surrounding my employment was drawing in customers. By next Friday, she would have seriously profited off my appearances. Instead, out of deference for Mr. Bennett, she cut my notice in half.

“Did you ask my boss to let me out of my notice early?” I accuse him.

He takes my hand and leads me from my bedroom and across the hall, where he types in a code that opens the door to his playroom. This is our afternoon routine. I come in, he greets me, he strips me, he puts a robe on me, and he takes me to the playroom.

I’m familiar with this routine, so even though my question hangs in the air, I remove the robe I’ve been wearing for ten seconds and kneel on the pad in the middle of the room. I part my thighs, pull my shoulders back, set my hands palm up on my knees, and tip my head back to look at this man who has become my Dominant in all ways.

Mr. Bennett does not insist on me keeping my gaze down as some Dominants do. He likes it when I look him in the eyes.

I’m not worried. I know he will answer me in his own time. He will also tell me the truth.

When he comes over to me, he tips my chin back and meets my gaze. “No, baby. I did not interfere. Unless you count dinner on Wednesday night, which led to half the world knowing about us.”

I give him a wry smile. I’ve grown bolder. He turns me on like nobody’s business. My arousal when I submit to him has not dwindled in the least, but my nervousness has decreased. “Half the world thinks they know about us. I think they’d be rather shocked if they knew I was currently kneeling before you naked and ready for you to dominate in whatever way you see fit. Oh…” I continue as if my next statement were a revelation, “…they’d be doubly shocked to learn that your live-in girlfriend has not been in your bed.”

He chuckles. “Sassy girl.” He taps my nose and walks away. “Close your eyes, baby. Center yourself.”

I do as I’m told, taking deep breaths and letting them out slowly like he’s taught me. He’s not wrong. This late-afternoon activity before dinner relieves my stress. “Next week, I’ll become a woman of leisure without having to work four hours before class,” I tell him.

He chuckles. “You can start working out with me before breakfast.”

I open my eyes and glare at him. “What?”

He laughs. “You heard me. It’ll be good for you. I promise.”

I groan. “You’re trying to kill me.” I’ve only worked out with him once and was worn out and sore afterward.

He sets his hand on top of my head. “Enough sass. How about some respect while we’re in this room.” He lifts a brow.

“Sorry, Sir.”

“What implement did I say we would try today?” he asks me.

He knows perfectly well what he told me he would strike me with this afternoon, but he likes to make me say it. “A flogger, Sir.”

“Ah, right. Come.” He holds out a hand and helps me stand.

I’m becoming more graceful.

He leads me to the cross on the far wall. “Face the cross. Grab the rungs above your head with both hands. Feet parted.”

I suck in a breath as I do as I’m told. The banter is gone. He knows how horny I get when my arms are above my head. Something about this position, which lifts my breasts and makes them more prominent, drives me even deeper into submission than kneeling.

Kneeling is still my favorite pose. I like to kneel on the floor in front of him most evenings while he sits on the loveseat in his office and works on his computer. I like how he absently runs his fingers through my hair.

He interrupts my thoughts. “I’m going to use two floggers, baby. You watched a scene like this at Edge. It’s called Florentine flogging. Do you remember?”

“Yes, Sir.” I hold still so he won’t have to reprimand me.

I listen as he swings the floggers through the air behind me, getting a rhythm before he finally lets the tips of the supple leather touch my shoulders. I close my eyes and let myself submit deeper. I already know this is going to feel amazing.

I’m not wrong. As he increases the pace and his proximity, the soft, constant thuds lure me into a deeper state. It’s so relaxing that I don’t mind the burn that grows as the minutes tick by. I know my back is hot and red. It’s going to sting but in a good way.

When my knees get wobbly, he immediately stops and wraps an arm around my middle, dropping the floggers to the floor. “I’ve got you, baby,” he murmurs in my ear.

And he does. He’s always got me.

I whimper. “Please…” I need to come. He won’t deny me. He lets me come every day.

His free hand trails down my bottom until he reaches between my parted thighs. “My girl is soaked,” he whispers as he strokes through my folds. It’s frustrating. He will touch me intimately enough to make me come, but he won’t penetrate me. Not ever. He strokes my folds, teasing me, and then rubs my clit until I come.

At first, it was the most delightful experience ever, but now it leaves me wanting, knowing there’s more, craving penetration. I don’t ask for it, partly because I’m afraid he will deny me, which would be humiliating. But also because I know if I cross that line with him, things will change.

Maybe not for him, but for me. It’s silly. I’m already his in every way. I can’t stop the way I feel. I’m in love with him. I’d do anything to keep from upsetting this arrangement, including remaining a virgin.

If he found out I’m in love with him… What would he do? I have no idea. He’d probably be disappointed and frustrated that I let this happen. I’m not supposed to be a real girlfriend. I’m here for his pleasure.

No, he hasn’t ever said it like that. He says the perfect things to me. He tells me I’m the best submissive he’s ever had. He tells me he never wants to let me go. He jokes about paying me more than I could possibly make next year, so I’ll stay with him another year.

What he does not do is include emotions. He doesn’t speak of our arrangement being more than what it is—a twisted Dom/sub relationship that doesn’t include sex or love—and leaves me wanting.

He’s nibbling on my neck as he circles my clit. “Such a good girl…”

I’m putty when he speaks to me like that.

“You’re going to come for me, aren’t you, baby?”

“Yes, Sir,” I breathe. I’m close.

“You’re going to come when I tell you to, and then you’re going to ride the waves of your orgasm while I watch, gorgeous girl.”

I whimper, squirming against his fingers, desperate for him to make his words come true.

He pulls back. “Uh-uh-uh. Who controls your pleasure, Brynn?”

“You do, Sir,” I whine.

“When do you get to come?”

“When you decide, Sir.”

“Do you want me to leave you unfulfilled while we go out tonight, baby?”

I shake my head. “No, Sir.” I definitely do not. I would be a mess if he left me wanting. It’s hard enough to perform for the paparazzi. I don’t need to add orgasm denial to my problems. I hold myself rigid. “I’ll stay still, Sir.”

He loves this, loves making me remain still on my own accord to earn my relief. He calls it self-restraint. It’s when he orders me not to move without using cuffs or ropes or straps. It’s effective. He taught me this that first night on the spanking bench.

He resumes stroking my folds, not applying enough pressure, making me crazy with lust. The hand around my waist slides up until he’s cupping my breast, thumbing my nipple .

“Please…” I beg.

“Such a good girl,” he repeats. “Come on my fingers, Brynn.”

He presses hard against my clit, pushing me over the edge with his words and actions.

My body shakes violently as my orgasm crashes around me. When it’s over, I’m nearly in tears, needing him inside me so badly. I don’t know how long I can continue to hold out like this. I want his cock. I haven’t even seen it. I want to hold it, stroke it, suck it, take it into my body. I need it like a drug.

But I told him I’m not a whore, and he’s paying me to live with him. I’d have to tell him I’ve changed my mind in order to convince him to sleep with me.

Plus, I’d have to give away my heart, knowing I can never get it back. Knowing I don’t mean the same thing to him that he means to me. I’m just a girl who conveniently shares a kink with him—a girl who also needs money. I was desperate, and he swooped in and saved the day.

He’s told me in the past that he has dominated people without sex. That’s what he’s doing with me. Except I can’t keep this up for a year. I’m falling apart after only a week. It seems like I’ve been here ten years.

I’m scared, and I’m even more afraid to tell him.