Page 42 of Bought and Enjoyed

I blinked, trying to focus on the screen that was suddenly inches from my nose. The headline of the article blazed across the top:Lucas Moreau: Football’s Last True Gentleman?

Beneath it was a photo of Lucas, looking devastatingly handsome in a tailored suit, his ice-blue eyes piercing even through the digital image.

As I began to read, I felt a sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach. The article was a profile of Lucas, discussing his career, his charity work, and his personal life. But it was a quote about halfway down the page that made my breath catch in my throat:

“I’m old-fashioned when it comes to relationships,”Lucas had, it seemed, told the reporter.“I look forward to a traditional marriage one day, where my wife follows my lead, and I can care for her the way a husband should care for a wife. In today’s world, I think we’ve lost sight of the natural order of things.”

CHAPTER 18

Alice

I spent the rest of the seminar, of course, thinking not about fourteenth-century peasant life but about Lucas. The oppressed condition of women in medieval France didn’t help at all. Every time I tried to focus on the discussion I just kept thinking about whether Lucas would, for example, sequester me—even starve me—the way young wives could easily find themselves isolated and starved if they didn’t comply with this or that burdensome idea of Christian feminine virtue.

The fate of unmarried women—the kind of scullery maid, for example, I had so lewdly fantasized about—was even worse. And apparently Lucas Moreau, the man who seemed so perfect for me, thought we should go back to the old ways.

By the time I got back to my apartment, I knew I had to confront him, at least. The afternoon stretched endlessly before me as I paced my small apartment, my mind a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts and emotions. The gentle autumn sunlight streaming through the windows seemed to mock my inner turmoil, itswarmth at odds with the chill of doubt that had settled in my chest.

I found myself drawn to the full-length mirror in my bedroom, studying my reflection with critical eyes. The girl who stared back at me looked outwardly unchanged—same wavy chestnut hair, same green eyes, same slender build. But beneath the surface, I knew he had fundamentally altered me. The plug nestled in my bottom was a constant, undeniable reminder of that fact.

My fingers toyed with the hem of my skirt, itching to reach beneath and remove the source of my physical and emotional discomfort. It would be so easy to disobey, to assert some small measure of control over my body and my choices. I took a deep breath, steeling myself for the act of rebellion.

But as my hand moved toward the plug, I found myself hesitating. The memory of Lucas’ commanding voice, his piercing blue eyes, the way he made me feel simultaneously cherished and owned, washed over me. My fingers trembled, then fell away from my skirt.

I couldn’t do it. The realization hit me like a physical blow, leaving me breathless and weak-kneed. I sank onto the edge of my bed, burying my face in my hands as hot tears of shame fell from my eyes.

I told myself it was fear that kept me from removing the plug. Fear of punishment, fear of disappointing Lucas. But as I sat there on the edge of my bed, tears drying on my cheeks, a deeper truth began to emerge from the fog of my confusion.

It wasn’t fear that stayed my hand. It was need. A primal, urgent need for Lucas’ dominance that had taken root in my very core. The realization both thrilled and terrified me.

I moved to the kitchen in a daze, mechanically pulling ingredients from the fridge to assemble a salad. The crisp lettuce, ripe tomatoes, and tangy vinaigrette barely registered on my palate as I ate, my mind consumed with thoughts of Lucas and the conflicting emotions he stirred within me.

As evening settled over Paris, I found myself curled up on the sofa in my living room, staring blankly at the dark TV screen. The remote lay untouched on the coffee table, a silent testament to my inner turmoil. I couldn’t bear the thought of mindless entertainment, not when my world had been turned upside down.

The soft golden glow of the lamp cast long shadows across the room, mirroring the light and dark warring within me. I shifted slightly, the movement causing the plug to press against sensitive flesh. A shiver ran through me, equal parts discomfort and arousal.

My fingers toyed absently with the hem of my skirt as I debated whether to give in to any of the utterly conflicting impulses that throbbed inside me, almost literally. I wanted to take the horrid, shameful, much-too-pleasurable thing out of my most private place—throw it from my window and hope it would land in the Seine. I wanted to raise my skirt and touch my tingling clit, make myself come for the camera knowing that Lucas would see… knowing that he would whip me until I couldn’t sit down. I wanted to take off all my clothes and kneel on the floor to await the moment he would arrive, so that he could fuck my face and come down my throat the instant he came in the door.

The soft click of the door opening startled me from my reverie. I turned, my heart leaping into my throat as I saw Lucas stride into the apartment. His tall, athletic frame filled the doorway, exuding an aura of confidence and authority that made my pulse quicken. In his hands, he carried a long, slim gift box that I instantly recognized as the type used for lingerie.

Lucas’ ice-blue eyes locked onto mine, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Bonsoir, ma chère,” he said, his deep voice sending shivers down my spine.

I stood, smoothing my skirt nervously. “Bonsoir, Monsieur,” I replied, my voice barely above a whisper.

Lucas crossed the room in a few long strides, closing the distance between us. He held out the box, an expectant look on his face. “A little gift for you,” he murmured.

I took the box with trembling hands, feeling the weight of it—and all it represented—settle in my palms. The smooth, cool surface of the box seemed to burn against my skin, a tangible reminder of Lucas’ control over me.

As I looked up from the box, I caught Lucas studying my face intently. His brow furrowed slightly, a flicker of concern passing through his eyes. “What’s wrong, Alice?” he asked, his voice softening. “You seem troubled.”

I bit my lip, averting my eyes for a moment. When I met his gaze again, I swallowed hard, struggling to find the right words. “It’s nothing,Monsieur,” I murmured, my eyes still fixed on the gift box in my hands. “I’m just… tired from a long day of classes.” The lie tasted bitter on my tongue, but I couldn’t bring myself to confront him about the article, not yet. Not when he was looking at me with such tenderness in his eyes.

Lucas studied me for a long moment, his piercing blue gaze seeming to see right through my feeble excuse. I held my breath, certain he would press the issue. But to my surprise, he simply nodded, accepting my explanation with a small smile.

“Very well,ma chère,” he said softly. “Perhaps opening your gift will lift your spirits.”

His large hand came to rest on the small of my back, gently guiding me toward the sofa. I sank down onto the soft cushions, acutely aware of the plug shifting inside me as I sat. Lucas settled beside me, his thigh pressing against mine, radiating warmth through the thin fabric of my skirt.

“Go on,” he urged, nodding toward the box in my lap. “Open it.”

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