And then later . . . well, shortly after he was through playing for me, I found myself in the backseat of a taxi, furious and crying like a fool.
“You’re sending me training?” I finally ask, thrusting the memory of the near-s.e.x experience with Lucas out of my head. When he stops strumming the guitar abruptly, murmuring to someone with him in the Gibson store, it makes keeping my thoughts in the here and now that much simpler. I begin to ask him if Kylie’s job is really that intense to need specific instructions, but then I recall all the events and traveling that he’s got to do over the next 10 days. And how our deal is contingent upon one major aspect:
Me being obedient, doing exactly as he says for the duration of the week and a half.
“I am,” he confirms. There’s a smile in his voice. “So you’re mine?”
Fighting back fear and pride and something else that causes my heart to beat erratically, I shiver and say, “Yes, I’m yours.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Lucas doesn’t wait until the evening to get the list of training instructions to me. The email shows up in my inbox rapidly, less than a couple hours after I send Kylie a Facebook message with my email address. Lucas has personally sent it himself, along with a short note that makes my br**sts tingles and my ni**les harden with excitement.
Miss Jensen,
As promised, I’ve attached the training instructions. Look over them. Learn them. Don’t forget the deal you’re making.
Can’t say I’m not looking forward to the next several days. I’ve already got this vivid idea of how you’ll taste after you’ve said the words. How you’ll feel when I’m inside of you. Have you imagined it yet?
-Lucas
Without thinking, I reply and ask him if workplace s.e.xual hara.s.sment laws apply to being employed by a c.o.c.ky rockstar. He responds while I’m opening the training instruction attachment.
Why? Do you feel intimidated by me?
No, not in the way he’s referring to. I feel drawn to Lucas. I know for a fact I shouldn’t allow myself to give in to my attraction to him because it’s one of those things where there’s no possibility of a happy ending. Even if we wanted to be together for something more than s.e.x, it’s impossible thanks to his career and the steady influx of women he comes in contact with. That’s what’s so d.a.m.n intimidating and frightening about him.
I’m shocked to discover that Lucas’s “list” is in reality a multiple page Word doc.u.ment that’s contains more black writing than empty white s.p.a.ce. Sighing, I tote my laptop downstairs, grab a bottle of water and an apple from the kitchen, and set up shop in the family room. I place my computer on the coffee table and open the doc.u.ment. Reading every word carefully, I study the instructions laid out for me. As I read, my skin grows more and more flushed, until it’s hot to the touch.
When Lucas said he wants me to submit to him, he wasn’t s.h.i.tting me.
“You will report to me at 8am sharp on Thursday morning. You will live with me in the residence of my choosing for approximately 10 days, which includes but is not limited to my current rental and hotels, etc. during out of town business,” I read aloud in a soft whisper. “You will be provided your own room.”
My chest clenches up because I realize that I’ll have to say a temporary goodbye to Gram. h.e.l.lo will be so incredible when I return, though, I remind myself, picturing her face when I slide the deed to the house into her hands and tell her she doesn’t have to worry about having to move.
“You will consent to carry an electronic tablet for the purpose of note-taking and a cell phone provided to you by myself and reply to any calls or messages in a timely manner. You are not to give this number out to personal acquaintances.” A special cell phone and iPad? Just . . . wow. I shake my head incredulously. “While you are in my service, you will awaken no later than 7am unless otherwise discussed.”
Further down the page, there’s information on my public uniform—all black, either pants or dress, it’s my choice along with dark underwear, though I’m not sure why that matters—and private and public protocol. I’m to call him Mr. Wolfe or. . . .
I scroll to the next page and my heart beats a little faster as I whisper, “Sir.”
On the final page, the fourth page, the training is broken down into categories and what’s expected of me: Physical and Mental and Verbal.
Personal appearance and concentration and speech restriction. Under no circ.u.mstances am I to speak to the press or paparazzi, though I’ve never seen a paparazzo in Nashville and the last thing I want to do is seek them out.
The next category is Punishment and Discipline, but there’s not a single instruction to be found beneath the heading save for three words that send a trill of excitement through me: “To be discussed.”
“You are so not spanking me, Sir,” I murmur.
The two final categories are s.e.xual Training and Emotional Training. There are strikethroughs through both, but I wish he’d simply removed them from the doc.u.ment all together because they give me thoughts that I’m not quite sure I dislike. Thoughts that make me wet and confused.
As I send Lucas an email, informing him that I’ve read over the instructions and will follow them to the best of my ability, I realize something that would almost make me giggle if the situation were any different.
On the last Your Toxic Sequel alb.u.m, the final song on the CD was called “Your Master.” I remember the first time I listened to it, on the way to work one morning on a radio station that censored a quarter of the lyrics, and how Lucas’s every other word made me fidget in my seat. Now, I can vividly picture Mr. Wolfe going through this list of instructions and changing every reference to himself from “Your Master” to what’s currently in front of me.