Page 20 of The Billionaire Submissive
“Sure.” He did so, sending the limo back toward the airport. If they were lucky, the reporter was already racing down the road after it.
Unlike her drab, boring kitchen, these stoves gleamed polished steel. Everything was white or stainless steel, modern and top of the line. Dmitri’s must be doing well indeed.
The owner met them at the back door. “Don’t you worry about a thing, Mr. Morgan. They won’t get a word out of any of us.”
“The bill…” he began, but the man waved his hand.
“We can take care of it tomorrow. Not a problem. Here.” He handed Lilly a cardboard box with a built-in handle. “I was inspired by your dress. A little something to enjoy later,” he said with a wink.
For once, it didn’t embarrass Donovan that someone might have a clue about what he was into. Not when the man smiled so warmly with open affection for the lady in question.
Lilly kissed his cheek and they made their escape through the back door. The employee lot was small and tucked off Robert Street, the main thoroughfare through this part of town. Luckily an alley led through another parking area to a side street.
Her car beeped as she unlocked the doors, and he barely managed to snag the keys she tossed his direction without warning. Somehow he didn’t think a Mistress would ever let the sub drive. “You trust me to drive your car?”
In the darkness, her dress glowed like a beacon. Almost as bright as her smile. “For your safety, I think that’s best. I drive even worse than I cook.”
She waited for him to open her door, which meant he had to come in close. Close enough to smell the spice of her skin. He took the box from her hand and set it behind the passenger seat, and then her hand settled on his chest. Making him look at her.
“Do you need me to help you now? Or can you wait until we’re at your house?”
He could picture exactly what she’d do. She’d flatten him back against the door of her car, unzip his pants, and one touch of her magnificent, feminine hand and he’d explode. Over and done. Easy. It was dark and secluded enough no one would see, and he wouldn’t have to worry about walking through the restaurant with a load in his pants since they were already safely outside.
He shook his head despite the very loud and bitter complaints from his swollen cock.We’ve already had someone sniffing around. The last thing I need is someone coming out the back door for a cigarette and getting a shot of her jacking me off.“I’m good.”
She let her hand drop but didn’t slide into the waiting seat quite yet. “I don’t like the idea of you suffering, Donovan, at least if it’s not by my deliberate doing. Do you live close?”
Again, the Mistress surprised him. She didn’t want him to suffer. At least not until she was the one doing the punishment. It was twisted, in a way, and he loved it. Shaking his head, he helped her into her seat. “One of my homes is in downtown St. Paul. We’ll be there in a matter of minutes.”
“Oneof your homes,” she said flatly after he settled into the driver’s seat. “How many homes do you have?”
He adjusted all the mirrors and then backed out. Christ, her windshield was a mess of bug guts and pollen that looked like it’d been gathering gunk for years. “In the country, or out?”
She blew out a sigh. “I knew you were filthy rich but it didn’t dawn on me you’d have homes abroad.”
“I have a condo at Galtier Plaza. It makes it easy to work at my office when I’m in town. For the summer weekends, I like to go up to my lake house on Lake Minnetonka. I have apartments in Chicago and New York. A beach house in Miami and another in L.A. Most of an island in the Bahamas. A swanky Paris apartment when I really need to show off. And a villa in Rome. I think that’s it.”
“Are you sure? You didn’t forget a castle in England?”
“My bad.”
She frowned at him which slowly turned into incredulity. “You do?”
“More of a manor house, actually. The castle’s in Scotland.” The car ran unevenly. He couldn’t tell if it needed an alignment, or if the engine was skipping. “When’s the last time you had your tires aired up?”
“Um… When I bought the car? Two or three years ago. Maybe?”
“Oil change?”
“What does the sticker say?”
He had to rub at the glass with the heel of his hand to make out a date. “Good lord, Lilly. Your last oil change was nearly a year ago. You’re supposed to change it every three months.”
“I forget.” She shrugged. “I hardly ever get behind the wheel.”
“I’m beginning to think it’s a very good thing,” he muttered.
“You haven’t even seen me drive yet,” she teased. “I can’t do freeways. I don’t make left-hand turns across traffic. I’m terrified of messing up in a parking garage and getting stuck behind the bar with everyone shouting at me. And I avoid downtown Minneapolis like the plague. I can do St. Paul, though, so I ought to be able to find my way home in the morning.”
