Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 90114 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 451(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90114 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 451(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
I'm alone, in the shower, washing off all the remains of today—the hair spray, the makeup, the tape that kept my dress in place—because he demanded I look the part.
I'm alone, in the shower, without all the rich girl accessories. And, sure, the shower is amazing by New York City standards. The size of my old bathroom, with shiny tile, ornate fixtures, and perfect water pressure.
Sure, the shampoo and soap are the best money can buy and the whole place smells like lilac.
But it's still a shower. Like any other shower. It's the most normal place I've been all day.
I should be thinking about my life and what's become of it, but instead, I'm closing my eyes and replaying the coat room and the balcony.
I'm picturing all those other dirty promises, stroking myself to orgasm.
I come fast. Too fast. The wave is so intense it makes my legs shake. I press my back against the wall to stay upright.
Even with all that intensity, it's not enough. I need him. I need him again and again and again.
When was the last time I wanted something this much? Something beyond food or safety or health? I can't remember.
I wash my hands. Soap my body.
Then shampoo, conditioner, a quick shave.
Even as I step out of the shower, wrap myself in a towel, move into my room—
I replay it again and again.
I should be more concerned about this recently redecorated room. It is, as Lock promised, much to my liking. Sleek furniture. Bedding in shades of red and purple. Scarlett. Violet. Eggplant. Crimson. White walls decked with black-and-white movie posters. Sheer curtains that let in the beautiful New York blue.
I don't know what the hell I'm doing tomorrow. I don't know what the hell I'm doing next week.
But, right now, I don't care.
I soak in the sensation of satisfaction. Hold on to it as closely as I can. For as long as I can.
Until I fall asleep and dream of all the other things I want Shep to do to me.
For the first time in my adult life, I sleep in on a weekday. There isn't even an alarm to snooze. My cell is still in my purse, in the living room.
It's just me, this big, beautiful room, and the soft light of morning.
My room faces west. The Hudson. The sunset. New Jersey. But even that New Yorker cliché—anything but Jersey—can't harsh my buzz.
I'm still riding on last night's pleasure. All the other details are irrelevant.
After I move through my morning routine, I check my dressers. My clothes are here. As are some new items I didn't choose. Bought by Shep. Or his team.
I should be annoyed by the imposition, but my thoughts turn dirty too quickly.
Lace lingerie, silk sleepwear, basics that cost as much as my grocery bill. All things he can tear to pieces.
I don a crimson robe. It's soft and smooth, somehow warm and cool at once. Then I move into the main room.
Jazz music pours from the kitchen. I don't recognize it. I can't find a pattern. But that's the point of jazz, isn't it? It defies other musical conventions.
Maybe Shep likes it. That would suit him. He defies classification.
"Miss Lee." Key's voice fills with surprise. "I didn't realize you were awake." She almost blushes. "I can turn the music off."
"Don't. I like it."
"Are you certain?" Incredulity streaks her expression. "I'll put on something you'd prefer. Aalock tells me you enjoy show tunes."
"Musicals, yes. Though it's more the energy of the theater. I prefer plays."
"The ones without singing?"
I nod.
"Can you believe people are still paying seven hundred dollars a seat for Hamilton? I know it's nothing to Mr. Marlowe. And nothing to you soon. But—"
"I haven't seen it."
She shakes her head disappointing.
"I haven't seen much recently. I used to go to the TKTS box on Sundays, to find a cheap matinee, but now I spend that time with my dad."
"Your father, of course. He left something for you." She motions one moment. Moves into the kitchen. Returns with a note. "Would playing a few songs from Chicago be too obvious?"
"That's a sweet thought, but I don't think I ever need to hear All That Jazz again."
Her smile is almost warm. Teasing even. "Amy Winehouse perhaps?" She offers another, more popular but jazz adjacent option. "Or do you prefer a different modern performer?"
"This is great. Really. I promise."
She places the note on the table. "What would you like for breakfast?"
"Anything is fine."
She stares at me, unblinking. "Of course, anything is fine, Jasmine. I can do anything. If you'd like me to decide—"
"Yes. Surprise me."
"Oolong, I assume?"
"Perfect." I nod thanks and pick up Dad's note. It's weird having an actual servant. Though I guess there's a more modern word for it. Assistant. Chef. Household manager.
Does it matter what you call Key's job? The title doesn't change the duties.