Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 65066 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 325(@200wpm)___ 260(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65066 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 325(@200wpm)___ 260(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
“I think so.” She bites her lip as I sift through the tank tops and shorts she picked out.
Before she can leave to try on the dresses, I stop her. “Panties too. Did you forget?”
“No,” she flushes. “I don’t usually wear them.”
I growl. “Out here you wear them. In the house you can go bare.”
“Is that an order?” she asks. I’m about to pull her into a dressing room and bend her over when I realize she’s teasing.
Growling, I stomp off, pushing the cart so no one can see my raging hard on. She takes a moment to change, so I’ve barely got myself under control before she finds me.
“Is this okay?” she calls. She’s in a little dress, a floral thing with straps that leave her arms bare. It hugs her body, showing off her slight curves. She looks sweet and wholesome and innocent, and I’m just a big old grumpy bear.
“Yes. Good. Get a few of those. And some sweaters.” It still gets cold at night.
“Do you want me to wear it today?”
Yes. I want you to wear it while I drive us back to my den, your head in my lap. I’ll carry you to my bed, rip the dress off and fuck you until you cum.
“Not today,” I manage to growl. “Got shit to do. Something practical.”
“Okay, Grizz.” She skips off.
I hide behind a display of jackets and adjust my jeans. Dress shopping with Jordy—not happening again. I’m turning into a fucking pervert. There’s an easy solution: get her home, tie her to my bed.
But that’s not why I took her. I’ve got a job to do.
I pay for everything and stop her from carrying the bags. I was raised to treat women like ladies. I open the doors and I carry the bags. Jordy is obviously uncomfortable with me doing things for her. She bites her lip but obeys.
I escort her out with my hand on her back. In a pair of overall shorts and t-shirt, she looks like a tomboy sent out to play at recess. Fresh-faced and young. She shouldn’t be around me.
We stop at a drugstore next. I park the truck and point to the doors. “Girly shit. Get it.”
“What?”
“Kit, I’m on a job. You got intel I might need. Until I figure out what I need, you’re with me.
She pales. “But my master—”
“Forget him. You’re with me.”
“When it’s over, will you send me back?”
“Cross that bridge when we come to it,” I say, even though I have no intention of sending Jordy back to the likes of Augustine. Ever. Augustine will be pissed, but he doesn’t have to know how she escaped. And after a while, he will forget about her and I can find her a new master. I’ll screen doms for her myself if I have to. Maybe Trey knows a good wolf who would accept a sub, even if she’s a fox.
But as I think of handing Jordy off, my bear growls. Jordy shrinks smaller in her chair.
“Out,” I tell her. “Grab anything you need. Hairbrush…girly shit. I don’t know what you need.”
She gnaws her lip again.
“Stop that,” I growl and she does, straightening to attention. Fuck, now I’m giving her orders.
I tear out of the truck and let her out, slamming the doors a little harder than necessary. “Come on.” I prowl into the drugstore and grab a shopping basket, handing it to her.
She looks lost.
“Go, get what you need. Just for a week or so.”
She faces the store. “I don’t know what I need.”
I stare into her wide eyes and realize I’m asking her to think of herself. But if she thinks I’m going to pick her shampoo out for her, she’s got another think coming. “While you’re with me, I want you to look good. Not makeup, but take care of yourself. If I find out you went without because you didn’t want me to have to buy it, I’ll go buy twelve of them for you.” I dip my head closer, making sure the cashier can’t over hear us. “And then I’ll punish you.”
Her pupils dilate, like that excites her, but she nods and scrambles down an aisle. I follow, grabbing a handful of chapstick and throwing them into her basket.
I shake my head. For someone who hates the dom/sub power games, I sure like getting my way.
“Sir?” she asks. She’s poised at the entrance to the brightly lit makeup aisle. Cardboard cutouts with celebrities’ painted faces greet me at every turn. Fucking clown house.
“No make up—” I start to say when she whispers,
“Just some foundation. To cover up the scar.”
Shit. Can’t say no to that.
“All right. Cover up, or whatever. And…” I glance at the painted faces with disgust. “Whatever else you want. But nothing too crazy.”
“Thank you,” she skips up to me and kisses my cheek.