Page 19 of The Southern Submission

I give her thigh one last squeeze and slide my hand out from under hers, enjoying the pressure she keeps on it as if she doesn’t want to lose contact. I start the car, pull on a pair of sunglasses, and look over my shoulder for traffic before racing away from her apartment in a roar of Italian horsepower. Ainsley makes a muffled squeal that’s too fucking cute as she braces against the door and center console. The wind whips around us through the open top of the MC20, pulling at Ainsley’s hat. She quickly presses it down lower on her head and squints against the wind.

“There’s a pair of sunglasses in the glove compartment. There’s something for you to look over, too,” I say, loud enough to be heard over the rush of wind and engine.

She looks at me suspiciously, then reaches to open the glove compartment and sees the gold and pink aviator sunglasses. “Are these the whore glasses?”

I choke out a laugh and manage a quick look at her as I navigate through the early morning traffic in her neighborhood. “Excuse me?”

“Are these the sunglasses that are passed around to the girls who ride in this car with you? The whore glasses.”

“I bought those for you this morning before I picked you up. If you don't like them, we can make a stop before we leave the city and get you something you like better. Besides, I don’t drive women around, so there’s no chance I’d have communal sunglasses.”

“Oh,” she says quietly.

“I need you to sign the papers under the sunglasses.”

Her contrite expression over her misread of the sunglassessituation sharpens into distrust again. “What are they?”

“Non-disclosure agreement and the contract for our arrangement. Standard forms, nothing untoward or weird, I promise. To protect my privacy and your ethics as a journalist. Feel free to read through the packet before signing. I’m grabbing coffee and the drive to the lake is about an hour. We have time.”

“You seriously want me to sign an NDA and a contract to fake date you?”

“Yes.” I keep it simple and to the point.

I want to be protected from the start because I’m going to be spending a lot of time with this woman and I won’t be cleaning up my own fucking messes down the road like I have with my brothers. I’ve learned from their mistakes. Well, Zander’s, mainly, but Hayes isn't blameless. He married Paige on a whim without a prenup and then fucked up royally when he bought out her hotel legacy without so much as mentioning it. She left him for a few agonizing weeks where we weren’t sure if he’d be facing a divorce and subsequent loss of half of his considerable assets. I’ll be smart from the start and cut off any potential issues now with a contract that stipulates what can and cannot be said about our arrangement.

I weave around traffic and Ainsley presses her body back into her seat as she pulls the manilla folder and binder-clipped sheaf of papers out of the glove compartment and starts flipping through the document. I pull into a coffee drive-through and order for us while she reads. She doesn’t even complain, so I know she’s concentrating deeply. I pull forward and pay, take her drink first, and slide the iced coffee between her thighs, making her jump at the contact of the icy cup on her skin.

“Hey!” she says, flattening the papers against her chest and looking down at where her drink is now nestled with my handon top. I press it closer to the apex of her thighs and she stares daggers at me.

“No cup holders. You’re responsible for your own drink, Muffin. If your hands are busy with those papers, your pretty thighs will have to hold it instead.” I dry the condensation on my hand along the inside of her thigh, making her squeal in protest.

“Use your own shorts to dry your hands.” She swats my arm with the sheaf of papers as she tries to hide her smile, which just makes me laugh.

“Your leg was so convenient, though.”

I turn back to the barista and take my drink, catching her slipping a phone away, knowing she likely snapped a photo of us. That happens a lot. People think I’m some kind of celebrity because of my business and status, so they feel entitled to take photos of me or my family whenever we’re out. Normally, it’d bug me, but this is convenient, given I want photos of us together to make it online. I tip the barista generously before we get back on the road.

“How’d you like it if I wiped my cold, wet hand on your bare thigh?” Ainsley asks.

“I’d ask you to keep going because I like temperature play and your hands look soft.” I give her a coy smile. She smacks me again and I laugh harder.

“You’re incorrigible,” she huffs, but there’s another hint of a smile turning up the corners of her mouth that she’s trying desperately to tamp down.

“Oh, I see that smile you’re trying to hide. You like it.”

“Shut up. I have important documents to decipher and you’re distracting me.”

I slide my iced coffee between my thighs and move my right hand off the steering wheel over to her bare knee, where Istroke her soft skin and feel goosebumps rise under my touch immediately. “If you want a distraction, I’m good at providing those.”

“Payton, focus on the road and quit touching me while I’m trying to read. There’s no one to perform for.” Ainsley’s voice isn’t as certain this time, and when I glance her way, her bottom lip is trapped between her teeth and she’s staring at my hand on her leg. It looks good, like it belongs there, my fingers lazily making circles over her tan skin as I explore her thigh.

“Practice makes perfect, Muffin. I want us to be comfortable when the time comes to put on the proper show. Shouldn’t we know what it feels like and how we’d react in the moment? I’m a hands-on guy. I’ll be touching you any chance I get in public. You won’t be able to freeze or look uncomfortable with it and you’ll have to sell the idea that you enjoy it. So do you?”

“Do I what?” she asks, her voice unmistakably breathy while my fingers roam unchecked up her thigh, still drawing light circles over her skin.

“Enjoy having my hands on you?” I’ve reached the frayed edge of her shorts and brush along the strands, wishing I could watch her face instead of the road. I let my fingers graze below the edge and slowly slide toward her inner thigh. I feel her tremble before she finally grabs my wrist and moves my hand away.

“You need to drive and I need to read.” She evades my question, yet manages to answer it at the same time. She liked it more than she wanted to admit. That’s good enough for me.

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