Page 31 of Reveal Me
I tut. ‘Like I said, you’re the worst sub I ever had.’ I shake my head and turn back to the oven to check the food. ‘Part of this life is taking care of your body. That involves eating well, drinking little, and working out.’ It’s a relief to move on to safer subjects. ‘Do you work out?’
Mischief flares in her chocolate-coloured irises. ‘I like to ride.’
My cock twitches in my pants—just like she intended. Fuck. My. Life. What did I do to deserve this? I like thesimple life. An experienced sub, and somehow, I’ve just taken on the most inexperienced, defiant, daring minx ever to grace my club.
But like I said, deep down, dominating the defiant ones is so much more satisfying. The ones whoneedto be fucked into next week to know who’s really in control. And Princess Layla Sinclair is the most defiant of all. She might test me. Not like Samantha did, but in other ways. But I’m going to test her in ways she can’t even imagine.
And I’m going to enjoy every second of it.
‘Cheers.’ I raise my glass and clink it against hers.
Her eyes meet mine, and that invisible charge surges forcefully between us again.
‘Cheers,’ she says. ‘To us.’
‘There is no us.’ It comes out sterner than I intended, but it’s imperative she knows this isn’t a romance. It’s an endurance test—for both of us.
Her face falls for a split second, then she catches herself. ‘To our arrangement.’
I nod my approval. ‘To our arrangement. May it fulfil your every fantasy.’
‘It already is,’ she replies coyly.
Chapter Thirteen
LAYLA
The north-facing room I’ve claimed as my studio is the only space at Ardmore Castle where I can breathe freely. There are no stern-faced ancestors glowering down from gilded frames, no reminders of duty or bloodline or expectation—just blank walls, copious amounts of natural light, and the rich scent of oil paint and turpentine that means freedom to me.
I’ve been holed up in here since dawn, completely absorbed in the canvas before me. Deep crimsons bleed into charcoal blacks, creating forms that suggest shadows and secrets, curves that could be construed as architecture—but I know to be flesh. There’s something sensual and mysterious emerging from the paint—my way of processing everything I witnessed at Reveal last week. And everything that happed at Sean’s place.
The painting is unlike anything I’ve ever created before. I might even be bold enough to say it’s my best piece yet. Where my usual work tends toward landscapes and portraits—this piece pulses with dark mystery and promising intensity.
Carnal images from the club spin around my brain like a carousel: elegant restraints that collared those women like jewellery, the controlled power in Sean’s every movement, the assertive masculine dominance that radiated from him. I can’t believe I’m his, and he’s mine—for the next three months anyway.
I study the picture again. No wonder I’m feeling so inspired. It’s been four days since he signed the contract. The memory makes my pulse quicken. I’m still trying to process it all before tonight’s session at his club, and words—even if I had someone to speak them aloud to, which I don’t—can’t explain what I’m trying to capture.
I add another layer of deep red, letting the paint flow like silk across the canvas. Anticipation thrums beneath my skin like electricity as I try to imagine where he’ll start with me tonight. What he might do to me. And the not knowing, the imagining, has me in a permanent state of arousal.
Why does doing something so wrong feel so right?
I’ve always been naturally inclined to rebel, but this is on another level. And since I stepped inside the club, since I witnessed the sheer carnality of what occurs down there, worryingly, I don’t actually think the need to rebel is the driving force here. Sean is. And of course the need to explore sexually, which is confronting because… well, what if I like what I find?
I catch myself and shake my head. As usual, I’ve taken one step forward, then let my mind run ahead fifty more.
A gentle knock interrupts my overanalysing. ‘Your Highness?’ Kat’s voice carries that particular apologetic note that usually brings unwelcome news from the real world.
‘Come in,’ I call, reluctantly setting down my brush. Kat knows this is my only escape. She wouldn’t disturb me when I’m burrowed away in here unless it was essential.
‘Sorry,’ she says, slipping into the room with her usualquiet efficiency. The wince on her face tells me all I need to know. ‘Her Majesty is on the phone. She’s rather… persistent.’ She holds up her own personal mobile, which suggests how badly the queen desires my attention, when she’s resorted to calling my lady-in-waiting.
It was inevitable, I suppose. I’ve been avoiding her calls since I rebuffed Lord Montgomery last week. I wasn’t ready for another patronising lecture then, and I’m not ready for one now.
What am I supposed to say to her when my head is full of tonight’s possibilities and my hands are covered in paint that feels like direct evidence of all the forbidden things I’ve seen and done?
Kat holds the phone out, her expression openly sympathetic.
‘Did you tell her I was painting?’ I’m stalling. And we both know it. Kat knows my mother considers painting to be a frivolous waste of time. I’d love to prove her wrong one day. But it would mean nothing if someone bought them because of who I am, not because of their beauty.
