Page 57 of Ruthless Love

Reaching across to the small table at the end of the couch, he picks up a thin box. “Here.”

“What’s this?” I say with a smile I can’t hide.

“You’ll have to open it.”

His gorgeous smile beams with a naughtiness that excites me. The simple silver box is hinged and takes no effort to pry open.

I pull out a long pink cord, which looks to be about my height, with the softness and sheen of silk. Beneath it, a sheet of paper is folded into thirds. The page has a small diagram of a knot I’ve never seen, and the name is unusual.

“Prusik head?” I ask.

“I have to leave for a few days, and it’ll give you a quick knot to master.”

“For sailing?”

“Definitely not,” he says, looping the cord around my wrist. “This one tightens when you resist and loosens when you submit.”

His warm kisses along my neck and chest almost make me forget. But the soft chimes of his phone pull us both away, and I know what I need to ask. But like a chickenshit, I don’t.

He picks up the phone, and for a few contemplative breaths, he stares at the screen. I don’t know what to make of his expression, or the fact that he scoots me off his lap.

With one hand cupping my cheek and several simmering pecks on my lips, he says, “I have to go,” like he’s just won the lottery.

A second later, he’s out the door and gone. And I’m left wondering the million-dollar question.

Who’s Gaby?

Chapter Thirty-Three

EVIE

Austin’s been gone two days, six hours, and just enough minutes to make me want to fuck him senseless the second he comes through the door. So, when a few loud knocks sound at my front door, I positively skip through the house to answer it.

After his last text, I decided to swing home early, eager for whatever surprise he promised me after work. Which will only add to my own news. With my win on Long Multinational vs. Long Dong Silvers, Austin had better break out the Red Bull and get ready to celebrate all night long.

But when two more knocks hit the door, it’s clear the man must have seen me arrive, and I give the heavy custom door a good swing out. And nearly knock over the man on the other side.

He’s in his favorite gray three-piece suit, which is a ridiculous choice for the 102-degree heat of Dallas. Not a bead of sweat is evident on his smooth forehead, so the arrogant son of a bitch is obviously Botoxed to the max.

“Daddy?”

Without cracking his face with a smile, he greets me with barely a hug. “Evelyn. Are you going to let me into this hovel you’ve been shacking up in, or shall we grab beers, stand out here, and scratch our private parts while we gossip about the pound puppies you call neighbors?”

My practiced giggle bubbles up on cue. “You tell me. I’m good with both.”

His brows flatten, coordinating perfectly with his unfazed glance and tight lips. “I’m sure you are.”

He brushes past me, his gait stiff and commanding, as out of place as the suit that’s totally wasted on me. I shut the door and offer him a seat on the sofa, which he astutely scans, likely skeptical of food remnants or bodily fluids.

Patient, I roll my eyes, waiting for him to eventually sit. He doesn’t.

“So, Daddy, what brings you to the slums?”

“You, Evelyn.” The disapproval in his voice echoes through the room as loudly as it did when I was accepted to law school.

Banks women were not bred to think. They were bred to keep their mouths shut until such time as they were asked a question, about to eat, or prepared to suckle on the two-inch cocks of their husbands.

“I would’ve dropped by the house,” I said, wringing my hands. “You didn’t have to come all the way out here.”

---