Total pages in book: 26
Estimated words: 23747 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 119(@200wpm)___ 95(@250wpm)___ 79(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 23747 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 119(@200wpm)___ 95(@250wpm)___ 79(@300wpm)
Because Hudson turns downright homicidal if any of them even turn their eyes in my direction.
I wonder if it’s something kinky? Like, does he have some Christian Grey dungeon thing going on?
If that’s the case, I’m down for it, ‘hundred percent.
My need for a dopamine hit overrides my better judgment, and I can’t see how a little peek is going to hurt anything.
There’s no lock on the door, just that yellow tape which peels away easily with a soft crinkling sound. I click the handle, and it swings open onto a room half in darkness with the curtains closed. I fumble over the wood molding on the inside of the door until I feel the switch and flick it upward.
Whomp, whomp, whomp.
No frickin’ dungeon. Not even a red sofa or a riding crop.
There’s moving boxes. They’re not labeled with “Kitchen” or “Dining Room” or whatever, but it’s very obvious that things have been packed away. I’m guessing they’ve been put away from the part of the house that’s being renovated, so that the workers will have a clear space to do what they need, and there won’t be any chance of anything getting broken.
But this is like a ten on the boring scale, so why all the secrecy about coming through into this part of the house? There’s no demo here. It’s not torn up or dangerous.
I sigh and shrug, spinning to go back the way I came when I catch an open box with photo frames stacked inside.
God, how I’d love to tease Daddy when he gets back with a photo of him as a baby or a little boy with mashed potatoes smeared all over his cute little face.
I know curiosity killed the cat, but I’m a dog person, so…
I smirk as I pull out the first gold frame and study the picture, my anticipatory grin turning to a frown.
It’s not him. It’s a couple, but not Hudson.
Maybe his sister or brother?
No, he said he didn’t have any family.
And the woman… She’s pretty, and they are standing outside the front of this house. I’d recognize that incredible carved front door and stone anywhere.
I turn it over, wondering if there will be some clue, but there’s nothing.
My heart is starting to pound, and my palms are clammy. Something here feels wrong and all the crazy fantasy of the last twenty-four hours is suddenly feeling like dried flower petals starting to crumble.
I set down the frame and tug open the box. There’s picture frames and some files and envelopes and now, there’s no turning back.
I tug out the first thick file and read the printing on the tab which reads, “Chastity’s Charity 2024”. I leaf through, finding records of donations and dates and times right up to last month. I weed through the other files, all of them have something to do with someone named Chastity.
I’m tearing open the tape on another box. More files, some for someone now named Jackson, but nothing for Hudson. There are more photographs of the same couple, some inside the house, some in other places and some of the beautiful woman dressed in some pretty spectacular lingerie and I suddenly feel uneasy and out of place.
Like I don’t belong here.
No sign of Hudson. No mention of him.
What is going on?
My heart is in my throat as I back out of the room, shutting off the light and pulling the door closed.
Should I get out of here? What do I actually know about the man that brought me here outside of the few little conversations we’ve had between the sex and the daddy talk and him feeding me and making me drink Pedialyte?
In a kind of daze, I wander back upstairs, noting how generic this part of the house is, and finally find the bedroom we’ve been sharing and sit on the edge of the bed.
Why am I so naïve? Did I really think some billionaire prince charming had showed up in the strip club just in time to whisk me off the stage and into some pampered princess parallel universe?
Am I even conscious? Maybe I slipped on stage off those stupid heels, whacked my head, and I’m laying in some hospital room as a Jane Doe in a coma.
I have nothing of my own here. I’ve been living in Hudson’s shirts and boxers, so if I want to get away, I’ll have to go as is. I’m not sure what to do, but being up here in this room where I gave so much of myself to this stranger feels now somehow wrong and embarrassing.
I bolt back downstairs, looking at all the yellow tape on other doors, and start ripping it away and pushing my way inside.
I need to know what’s going on here. I need to know who has taken me here, told me he loved me, but really, did he just want to get me here, do the things we did, and maybe this isn’t even his house. Maybe…