Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 116597 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 583(@200wpm)___ 466(@250wpm)___ 389(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116597 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 583(@200wpm)___ 466(@250wpm)___ 389(@300wpm)
“We’re drawing up a contract, too,” she said, waving her finger at me. “And you’re going to take this seriously or I’ll drop the whole thing and still take your money — which you will pay a big portion of up front, by the way.”
“Yes, Mommy.”
“Jesus,” she muttered. “You’re more eager than that puppy dog you adopted.”
“Bark, bark.” I panted, too, for good measure, tongue flopping out before Liv shot me in the eye with the water pick.
“That’s enough. Now, lie back and open your mouth.”
“Wow, we’re getting started already, huh?” I rubbed my hands together as I did what she said.
Liv ignored me, firing up the drill as soon as her assistant rejoined us, but her mouth quirked up into a grin.
I thought it kind of looked like she had a little too much fun causing me pain.
I thought I kind of liked it, too.
Safe Word
Livia
Head Bitch in Charge.
That was the name of the shade of deep red lipstick I smoothed over my top lip, careful to inch it up into the swells perfectly before I dragged it along my bottom lip next. It was also the persona I was embodying for the evening, the one I wore so effortlessly.
Carter Fabri, center for the Tampa Bay Ospreys, was coming over to sign contracts that would bind us — in more ways than one.
And I was asserting my dominance in this situation immediately.
Not that I needed to, considering that boy was about as dominant as a kitten. But I never did anything half-assed. If we were going to do this, we were going to do it right — legally, financially, and consensually.
I tucked my lipstick away before exiting the bathroom and crossing to the full-length mirror in my bedroom. With one manicured brow cresting into my hairline and a slow smirk climbing on my freshly colored lips, I assessed the full outfit, reveling in the power it sent running through me.
I didn’t care what anyone said — clothing, makeup, and jewelry were just as important as armor going into war. A woman could create her destiny with the right outfit. She could tell the whole world not to fuck with her with a perfectly curated ensemble.
Tonight, I was playing the part of businesswoman, teacher, and psuedo-Domme at once, which was why I’d chosen a tailored blood-red suit that hugged every curve like it had been sewn straight onto my skin. The blazer was sharply cut, cinched at the waist to accentuate my long, sculpted frame, with sleeves that flared slightly at the wrists and shimmered with a delicate gold-threaded pattern. Underneath, a deep-V silk blouse as black as midnight framed the soft swells of my breasts and the elegant dip of my chest bone. I didn’t wear a bra. I didn’t have a need to.
My pants were high-waisted and wide-legged, elongating my frame and pooling just enough over the pointed toes of my black stiletto heels — the bottom of them the same crimson shade as my lips.
I wore my hair in a sleek, low ponytail, edges laid, the length falling straight and glossy down my back like a whip. My gold jewelry gleamed against my deep brown skin — thick hoops, a stack of bangles, and a chain necklace that dipped between my breasts and disappeared beneath it at the apex, inviting curiosity. My eye makeup was smoky and bold but precise, my highlighter sharp as a tiger claw and my expression completely unbothered.
I looked like I could sign a million-dollar deal, ruin a man’s life, and ride him into repentance — all without breaking a sweat.
Satisfied, I let the familiar sound of my heels clacking against my marble floor soothe me as I walked to the kitchen island, pouring myself a glass of red wine from the decanter I’d situated earlier. Tampa Bay stretched out in all its glory outside the floor-to-ceiling windows of my high-rise condo, and I tipped my glass toward the city I loved so much before taking a sip.
My stomach was a mess.
I didn’t know if it was butterflies or cockroaches causing the fluttering sensation, didn’t know if I was more excited or nervous or regretful.
It was an absolutely ludicrous arrangement to agree to — being Carter Fabri’s teacher in exchange for two-million dollars.
But it was also absolutely genius.
Part of me longed to call my best friend, Maven, and tell her the predicament I’d found myself in. We’d known each other since we attended college together — her in undergrad, me in dental school — and we’d been thick as thieves since. I knew she’d laugh with me, knew she’d make jokes and have the tension coiled in my gut relaxing within sixty seconds on the phone with her.
But the bigger part of me was thankful Carter and I had agreed not to share this arrangement with anyone, friend or otherwise.