(Author's note: Sorry about the long wait. I've got a lot going on so I can't guarantee the next chapter will come any faster, but I am still determined to finish this story. Also, this chapter feels a little less robust than usual, but I promise the next chapters will come back hot and heavy. Hope you enjoy anyway. And you know the drill--all that follows is strictly fantasy. In real life, consent is nonnegotiable.)
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I awaken to the sound of someone clearing his throat. I squint in the bright daylight streaming through the curtains and find Groves standing over me, holding a breakfast tray. I struggle to sit up in bed, careful to keep the sheet over my lap. I don't know why I bother. It's not like the black thong from the night before did much to protect my modesty, when Groves was leading me to this room on the end of a leash.
"Good morning," I mumble through a dry mouth, eyeing the big glass of water on the tray.
Groves drops the tray unceremoniously on my lap. The way he is glaring daggers at me is very un-butler-like. I decide to ignore him and focus instead on the delicious-smelling eggs benedict in front of me. I take a big gulp of water then pick up the fork and dig in. Yesterday at lunch was the last time I ate, thanks to Derek barging in and hijacking my pizza dinner.
Groves keeps glaring at me while I eat, which is more than a little unnerving.
"You're not good enough for him, you know," the butler says. His tone is vicious enough that I pause with the fork halfway to my mouth.
"What?" I ask.
"You're cheap trash," he hisses. His wrinkly jowls are quivering. "You aren't worthy of stepping foot in this house, much less sleeping in his bed."
I gape at him for a second.
"You think I
want
to be here?" I demand incredulously.
"I don't see you trying to leave." He sneers at me.
"Maybe I would, if I had my fucking clothes." I decide not to get into the fact that it isn't lack of clothes, but the threat of a multi-million dollar lawsuit that keeps me under Derek Harrow's thumb. And I'm definitely not going to get into the fact that even if the lawsuit was off the table, I'm not one hundred percent sure I'd leave now anyway, even covered as I am with ugly red burns from the night before. I'm pretty sure there's even some dried wax left on my scrotum. It's too painful to even think about picking at it right now. Yet here I sit, devouring breakfast in the bed of the man who had spent half the night tormenting me.
Groves looks like he wants to say more, but Derek walks in. He is barefoot and wearing tight black swim trunks under an open terrycloth robe. He brings the scent of chlorine into the room with him, and his hair is still wet. Of course he wouldn't skip his morning laps in the pool, even with only a few hours of sleep. The man is a machine.
Groves shoots another glare my way but keeps any further rude comments to himself. Instead he turns to Derek, his expression melting into obsequious servility.
"Will that be all, sir?"
Derek waves him off without a second glance and disappears into his massive closet. Groves' shoulders stiffen, probably with irritation at the rudeness. I wonder why he is so protective--in a way that is borderline creepy--of his boss. I know from experience that Derek is not exactly a joy to work for. Maybe Groves has fatherly feelings for him. Derek said that he had been working for the family since Derek was a kid.
Groves gives me a nasty parting glance but leaves without another word. I shovel more food into my mouth and chase it down with the rest of the water.
Derek's voice issues from the closet.
"If you're done lazing around, then get your ass in the shower. We're already late."
"Late for what?" I ask, then it occurs to me. "For work? Are you serious?"
I can't believe he spent all night torturing me and now expects me to go into the office like nothing happened. Scratch that--I can absolutely believe it. But that doesn't make it any less infuriating. I wonder how many other guests from the sex-fueled charity fundraiser last night will be going into work today, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Rich people really are a bunch of psychopaths.
"If I have to tell you again, you're going over my knee," Derek says mildly.
I slide the tray off my lap and scramble out from the under the sheets. Derek hasn't left the closet, so I take the opportunity to walk instead of crawl into the bathroom. My whole body aches--inside and out--from the exploits of the last few days. The water from the shower is going to sting like hell on the wax burns, but at least it will be soothing on my sore muscles. I hope.
I use the facilities, then fiddle with the faucet in the fancy spa shower until the rain-head flows at the perfect temperature. There's a pile of neatly folded towels and washcloths on an artfully placed wooden stool. I grab a washcloth and step inside the shower, but before I can slide the door shut, I feel a familiar, commanding presence at my back. Silly me to think that I could look forward to a quiet, relaxing shower by myself. Derek brushes past me, and the brief skin-on-skin contact thrills across my whole body.
Derek sprawls onto the stone bench protruding from the wall, entirely at his leisure. His cock protrudes from his bush of black pubic hair, already half-hard. Jesus fucking Christ, does he have Viagra running through his veins?
"Clean yourself up," he says, nodding toward the alcove in the wall next to me, where there are some bottles of overpriced products.
Conscious of his lustful gaze trailing over me, I squirt some body wash onto the cloth and lather it up. I swipe it across my chest, letting out a hiss of pain. I don't think the burns are very serious, but that doesn't mean they don't hurt. Unsurprisingly, my discomfort doesn't bother Derek in the least. In fact, he is stroking his dick slowly like he's watching his own private porno.
