Page 7 of Savage Game
“Did you wear that for him?” He leaned forward and braced his elbows on his knees.
There was an accusation in his tone she didn’t understand. “N-no.”
Disbelief etched his features and distorted the scars even worse. “No?”
She shook her head and dropped her gaze. Her voice just above a whisper, she confessed, “I bought it about a month ago hoping it would please him to see me in it, and somehow I chickened out each time I wanted to wear it.”
“And you’re wearing it now, because…” His voice trailed off, a clear message he expected her to fill in the blank.
“Because I was uncertain about today, and I wanted to feel good about myself.” She bit her lip in self-recrimination and wondered why she blurted the truth out.
It always gives Liam power over me.
Giving power to this ruthless man would be worse, and she couldn’t afford to give more than she already had to this man. He would devastate and annihilate her without blinking an eye!
Only the creaking of the chair warned her he’d moved, then he lifted her chin with one finger and forced her to make eye contact. “You should feel good about yourself.”
Um?
“Nice, your panties match.”
The warmth in her cheeks spread to her ears and the back of her neck. “They do.” Although he made it a statement, she replied. She fought the urge to drop her eyelids.
Stupid, stupid woman.
He let go of her face and settled back on his seat. “You may keep the set.”
Surprised, her head whipped up.
Is he into mind-fucking like Liam?
For a moment, neither of them moved or spoke. There was no deceit in his face, and she inclined her head. “Thank you.”
His features softened, and she almost relaxed.
2
Day Two
Charlotte wasn’t sure how she’d gotten through yesterday unscathed. Mr. Nolan had taken her clothes, and she had no clue if he’d burned them as he’d threatened. The rest of the afternoon had gone by in a bit of a blur. Mr. Nolan had given her a tour of the penthouse, which, in fact, was his living quarters as well as his private office space.
When the tour was done, he’d ordered her to shower, wash her hair and shave—which she’d done without protesting. She had marveled at the variety of toiletries and the expensive cleansing products all from high-end brands.
After she returned to the bedroom, she’d dressed in the French maid’s costume he’d left for her on the bed. From running her fingers over the shiny material, she’d been certain the dress was made of pure silk and probably cost more than the ensemble she’d arrived in. The skirt was also much shorter than the one she’d worn, and she’d fought the urge to tug the hem down for most of the day.
However, things could have been worse. He hadn’t touched her in any sexual way after running his finger over the swell of her breasts during their first encounter. He did go over his expectations, which mostly consisted of keeping his house clean and his belly filled. She could totally meet those expectations. Although Liam always criticized and berated her, she was a damn fine housewife.
He also expected an hour of physical exercising from her, which had come as a surprise, but was still doable and was nothing to freak out over. At least, there was no reason it would cause a meltdown from her as it was a nonsexual, PG-rated command.
The rest of the requirements were in an entirely different league, and she was so far in over her head it wasn’t funny.
Not only did he give her a limits list containing activities which either made her cringe in horror, gasp in outrage, tingle in all the right—wrong—places, or blink in confusion, he’d also given her a journal, and an instruction sheet on poses. Some of those poses had her blushing even now as she remembered them.
Being the coward she was, she’d placed the three items on the little desk in her room, yes, her room, and ignored them for the better part of the evening. All things considered, her situation could have been, and actually often had been, worse, and she dreaded the moment the other shoe would drop.
And now she was procrastinating over breakfast preparations. Mr. Nolan—and wasn’t it awkward to live together in close proximity with a man who bought her and call him by his last name—told her he wanted to eat at eight o’clock sharp, but she was hesitant to enter the dining room with his meal. After mental pep talk number eleven that morning, she picked up the tray from the counter and pushed her way inside the dining room.
She froze as he lifted his gaze from the tablet he was reading on, arched the eyebrow on the good side of his face, and tilted the iPad to look at his watch. She swallowed hard, straightened her spine, and marched inside with a bravado she didn’t possess.
