Chapter 16

CHAPTER 16

Asher

Brynn is off. It’s subtle, but it’s there. I’m not sure if those two guys at school upset her more than she’s letting on or if it’s something else. I don’t ask. She doesn’t seem ready to talk about it. When she’s ready, she will. If she doesn’t pop out of her funk and tell me by tomorrow, I’ll confront her.

She looks like a million bucks as we enter the charity function. I don’t need to stay too long. I know she’s tired after working at six o’clock in the morning all week, submitting to me, and still getting all her homework done.

Maybe I’m misreading her, and she’s just exhausted. It’s possible. But I’m not buying it.

We’ll make an appearance, have a drink, talk to a few people who need to see me at this function, and then make our exit.

Tomorrow, I’ll let her sleep in and rest because in the evening I have a dinner I need to attend with some investors. It will be our first big challenge because it will be just the two of us meeting two men visiting from New York.

I need these clients to believe I’m in a serious relationship. These men seem to have the mistaken opinion that I’m a player. I suspect they know I belong to a fetish club. It’s not that farfetched. It doesn’t mean they would ever tell anyone. It just means they might not trust me as fully if they think I fuck everything in a skirt. Little do they know I’m not currently fucking anyone in or out of a skirt.

Brynn is brilliant. No one would know she’s tired. She shakes off whatever is bothering her as soon as we enter the ballroom, smiling and addressing everyone who approaches us.

We’re a solid item now, so I smile proudly every time she giggles and explains how I swooped her off her feet from The Grind, where she was working as a waitress. Even the tenth time, she still tells the story without any indication that she’s exasperated.

I fall harder for her every day, but I’ve never been prouder than I am tonight. No part of her seems as uncouth as anyone is expecting, even though she jokes with everyone that she was just a regular girl working her way through college when Prince Charming suddenly showed up.

These people are vultures, though. They ask the most inappropriate questions. I’m shocked by their gall.

“Are you going to quit school now that you no longer need to worry about your future?”

“Do you think he’ll pop the question soon?”

“Does he wear a suit even when you’re at home alone? ”

“Does he really have his own chef, a house manager, and a driver?”

“Have you looked at diamonds?”

It never ends, and even though these questions mostly come from women—whispered not-so-subtly to the side as if I can’t hear them—they’re meant to unnerve her.

My girl never wavers. She chuckles and brushes them off when they’re overly rude, answers them noncommittally when possible, and never ever lets go of my elbow.

Brynn is a better woman than any debutante I’ve ever dated and any of the wives in this room.

In contrast to the wives, some of the women in attendance are business associates or acquaintances. They tend to have more scruples but still eye Brynn with speculative curiosity.

Brynn holds the one glass of champagne I handed her when we entered. She took one sip of it a long time ago, and I saw her wince. Rather than set it down, she has continued to hold it and even pretends to take a sip now and then. She’s absolutely brilliant.

The dress she’s wearing makes heads turn, also. It’s a creamy pale-pink color. Innocent looking. It’s strapless, and the front hugs her breasts to perfection, leaving the perfect hint of cleavage even though I didn’t give her a bra. It’s made of layers of a light gossamer material that hang loosely almost to her knees. It’s modest and tasteful. It makes her look youthful, which she is. She’s wearing the silver heels from last week because she insisted she was comfortable in them and didn’t want to try another pair tonight.

When there’s finally a break in the nosy approach of guests, I pull her against my side, kiss her on the lips, and smile at her. A camera flashes somewhere. I don’t care. I don’t even glance. “You are perfection.”

“Thank you, Mr. Bennett,” she whispers so no one can hear. “You’re pretty stunning yourself.” She leans in closer. “I need to use the ladies.”

“Of course. I’ll take you.” I turn her toward the exit to the hallway and guide her with a hand on the small of her back.

When we reach the restrooms, I kiss her behind her ear. “I’m going to go also. I’ll meet you right here afterward.”

“Okay.”

I watch as my perfect match steps into the bathroom, and I’m grinning as I enter the men’s, do my business, and return to the hallway.

A few minutes pass before two women I don’t know emerge from the bathroom. Neither of them is Brynn. They’re giggling, but when they spot me, they sober a bit. They’re drunk.

“Hi, Mr. Bennett.” The redhead steps far too close to me. “You look very handsome tonight.”

I stare at her. She’s extremely inebriated.

The other woman stumbles closer and grabs her friend’s hand. “Stop flirting, Alice. He’s taken.” Her words are appropriate. Her tone is snotty.

“I hope you two didn’t drive here,” I murmur. “You need to get a rideshare and go home before you embarrass yourselves.”

They giggle and lean into each other, holding each other upright, sort of. “Isn’t he hilarious?” the brunette says.

“Very.” The redhead reaches into her cleavage and pulls out a wrinkly card. When she holds it out to me, I ignore her. “In case things don’t work out with the college girl. She’s not old enough for you. You need a real woman. Someone who can satisfy you.”

I glance toward the bathroom door. Where the hell is Brynn? No one else has exited the bathroom. It’s been a long time. I’m growing worried.

I consider asking these two if they saw Brynn in the bathroom, but I don’t want to engage them more than necessary. I want them to go away. Women like them are the reason I have a fake girlfriend in the first place.

Fake?

What a joke. Brynn is more real than any girlfriend I’ve ever had. There is nothing fake about this relationship. I wonder if Brynn realizes that. Then I wonder if she would even be receptive to the idea. Does she still feel like I bought her?

The drunk women finally stagger on down the hallway. I’m grateful, but where is Brynn? Is it possible she came out before me and went back into the ballroom?

Not a chance. I told her to wait here for me. She would never wander off. She might make a great show of appearing comfortable in her newfound role, but inside, this is not a scene she’s used to. She keeps a tight grip on my arm, relying on me and trusting me to keep her close.

Suddenly, the bathroom door opens, and I’m so relieved to see Brynn that it takes me a moment to notice she’s not herself at all. She’s trembling and won’t meet my gaze.

I stop her when she reaches me. There’s no one else in the hallway now. I tip her chin back. “What happened?”

She gives me a forced chuckle. “Nothing gets by you ever, does it? ”

“Never. Tell me.”

She shrugs. “It’s no big deal. Can we discuss it later? I’m thick-skinned.”

Ah. Those two drunk idiots said something to her. Fucking bitches. Can’t my girlfriend use the restroom without being tormented? I asked her to stand by my side for a year because I wanted to chase off the vultures. It never occurred to me that she might be mistreated in the process. I feel like a shit.

“Let’s go home.” I take her hand.

“No, Asher. It’s okay. Really. We can go back inside. I’m fine.”

It’s the first time she’s used my given name, and I find myself staring at her. I like the sound of it coming from her lips. It sounds…real. More real than when she calls me Mr. Bennett or Sir. Those words keep her detached from me. They hold her at arm’s length.

She is my woman.

My submissive, yes. But she’s also my girlfriend. I want her to call me Asher. I want her to scream it in my bed. I don’t want to fuck her in the playroom or while I’m dominating her. I want to make love to her as my equal. As my partner. I want to look her in the eyes and have her whisper my first name while I sink into her.

Her gaze is leery right now. She’s unnerved by whatever those bitches said. Or maybe she can read my expression and knows I’m as off as she is.

I step closer. “We’re going home, baby. We’ve been here longer than necessary. You’re exhausted. You need sleep. I’m so damn proud of you, but we’re going home now.”

“Okay,” she whispers.

As I lead her toward the door, I shoot a text to Charles. He’ll pick us up out front. I want to get my girl out of here. I don’t know what I’m going to do in the future, but I never want her to go into another public bathroom alone again. What a fucking mess. I’m furious.