Total pages in book: 149
Estimated words: 141255 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 706(@200wpm)___ 565(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141255 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 706(@200wpm)___ 565(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
Gorgeous didn’t matter in this world because gorgeous could also mean cruel, crazy, or disgusting. But beyond good-looking… he looked angry. No, not angry, he looked pissed. Pissed right off.
My heart skipped a beat, worrying about how the anger would come at me. I knew from experience that it could be unleashed in a variety of ways and based on the tension he was emitting and based on what I knew from past experience: I should expect the unexpected.
I kept my blank gaze on his face and waited for direction, but he just stood there, staring at me, looking angry.
“Dario Ferrano. Nice to meet you.” He extended a hand, finally. I reached out so he could take my hand. He held it for a second, staring at me with something I read as disgust etched in his features. Was I a letdown? Would he reject me and request another?
Please no.
“It’s very nice to meet you, Master. I’ve been waiting for today for a long time,” I answered and his grip tightened almost painfully. His eyes flashed with something scary. I swallowed back the wince I’d almost made.
For another beat there was nothing but intensity in the room, so I tore my eyes away from looking at him and softly asked, “Is there something I can do for you, Sir?”
He crouched low and tipped my chin up with his index finger. “You can look at me when you speak to me for a start. Don’t be afraid to look at me.”
“Yes, Master.”
He straightened back up to standing, flexing his jaw muscles for a moment, and then his eyes traveled the perimeter of the room for a minute. Then he said, “Let me look at you. Up.”
I stood up.
“Twirl slowly,” he commanded.
I obeyed.
“Your hair,” he said. “That’s not natural?”
“No Sir. The color is, but it’s not straight. It was straightened this morning.”
“I’d prefer you not straighten it.”
“Yes, Sir.”
He was quiet for a minute, assessing me.
“Have you had dinner?”
“No, Sir.”
“Is now around the time you’d usually eat?”
“I don’t know what time it is, Sir.”
He looked at his wristwatch. “Almost 5:30.”
“Yes, Sir. I usually eat between five and seven.”
“Stop calling me Sir.”
“Yes, Master.”
“Call me Dare or Dario.”
“Yes, Dare.” Sensation prickled in me at using his name. But if I was to be his wife I’d have to do that in public. Public. I pushed away my anxiety.
“Where do you have dinner?”
“If I’m not entertaining, I eat dinner with the others who are off-duty. If I am entertaining, I sit at the feet of the patron I’m attending to while he or she eats.”
“Where?”
“In the patron’s suite or in one of the dining areas, Sir. I mean Dare. Sorry, Sir. I mean Dare.” My face heated. I hadn’t felt flustered like this in… in I don’t know how long. If I wasn’t more careful, I was going to be punished for this. It had been a long time since I’d been punished. And even worse, I could screw this up. I directed my brain to forget what was at stake here and to just go on autopilot.
A to B. A to B. That’s what I needed to do to get to C. I’m at C now.
Don’t mess up.
He moved to the desk beside the bed, lifted a telephone and pushed a button. “I want menus for dinner, please. Right, okay.”
He opened a bedside table drawer and pulled menus out. “I’ve got them. No, we’ll dine in the suite. Right. Fine.” He hung up.
I remained standing at the end of the bed. He sat down at the head of the bed.
“What’s good here?” he asked and I turned to face him. He passed a menu to me.
“What do you like, S--” I blushed again. “Dare?”
He gave me a little smile and my heart spasmed. But I was thinking, ‘wait for it…’ knowing that the crazy or kinky or evil or a combo of any or all of the above would reveal itself sooner or later. It usually didn’t take long. The longer it took the more chances of it being brutal when it came.
“I like everything. What do you like?”
“I…” I swallowed and then stupidly I said, “Pasta.”
Damn, why did I give him a personal answer? I knew better than to give anyone ammo that could be used against me. I hadn’t had pasta in two years and the answer just slipped. How could I let it slip?
“They don’t serve pasta?” He opened the menu and looked. “There’s a shit load of pasta.”
I shook my head a little. “I’m not permitted pasta.” I stopped myself from ending with the ‘Sir’.
“Why not?” He cocked an eyebrow.
“Too fattening,” I answered.
His eyes roved over me and I knew he was assessing my body shape. I was very slender. I was fit and healthy but definitely ten or fifteen pounds underweight.