The Redemption (Filthy Rich Americans 4)

I laughed. Was this the first bathroom selfie he’d ever taken? I imagined him standing awkwardly in front of the mirror, fumbling with his phone and being unhappy with the results. Had he taken several, and this was the best of the bunch? It was classic dad, but it didn’t matter. His sheer hotness made up for it.

Macalister: I wore this for you.

Me: I approve.

God, did I approve.

He sent me pictures every day after that.

It made me bold. Plus, I hadn’t seen him in a week, and ten days of orgasms while thinking about him had me conditioned. A Pavlovian response to drool at the thought of him.

This morning as I dressed for work, I’d put on a pair of white panties that were so thin and sheer, I looked naked—other than the white lace detail at the edges. I stood in front of my full-length mirror in the black dress he’d given me, one hand lifting the hem of my skirt and flashing him. The faintest cleft was visible between my thighs.

Me: I wore this for you.

Three dots appeared, then disappeared.

They blinked again, longer this time, before vanishing, and I grinned. My racy picture had put the great Macalister Hale at a loss for words. It came a few minutes later.

Macalister: I approve.

It was followed by an image of him lying shirtless on his back in his bed, his hair askew, and the shadow of his arm across his chest as he held the phone out overhead. It was so he could get Lucifer in the frame. The black cat was asleep, under Macalister’s arm and snuggled to his chest.

Macalister: I had no choice in wearing this.

I laughed but also my brain fried, wires crossing and shorting out, throwing off sparks. He was gorgeous, as was the cat, and the two of them together was overload.

Me: He missed you.

There was staff at the Hale house that took care of Lucifer, but the cat had made it clear to whom he thought he belonged to, now that Macalister had warmed up to his pet. I understood how the cat felt. I’d gotten Macalister to like me when he hadn’t wanted to, and now . . . I belonged to him.

Me: I missed you too.

As soon as I sent the message, I wished for it back. We had such a strange relationship, where him giving me a vibrator and making me come on his desk was safer than me admitting feelings for him. I didn’t know if he was interested in me in any capacity outside of sex. We were attracted to each other and both enjoyed him having control, but where did our boundaries stop?

We couldn’t date. For one thing, he already had a girlfriend, as far as Cape Hill knew. Evangeline would be accompanying her ‘boyfriend’ in the box seats this evening, and I’d be watching from my seat down on the floor.

Another issue was our dramatic age difference. People would assume I was a gold-digger determined to get her claws in him, and he was only after me as a hot piece of ass. And perhaps that was true, that he was only interested because I was some pretty young thing who’d sucked his cock and did what he told me to . . . but it didn’t feel true.

Macalister and I had a lot in common. He knew more about me than anyone else in the world.

And he’d told me I was more than enough.

Those damned dots blinked and disappeared. Once again, he was having difficulty composing a response. I started to write a follow-up to downplay it, but the dots returned, cycling through until his message was delivered.

Macalister: I am surprised. Your aim is usually impeccable.

I slowed and stared dubiously at the screen. Was this why he’d hesitated? So he could make a joke? I furiously punched my thumbs on the screen, tapping out my question, but before I could send it, his next message rolled through.

Macalister: I missed you as well. Looking forward to seeing you tonight.

I nearly dropped the phone in my excitement.

Opulent gold leaf work decorated the arches of the cathedral ceiling in the lobby of the Boston Opera Theatre. The red damask wallpaper was full of old-world drama. Black carpet with matching gold scrolls covered the marble staircase that led up to the balcony, and overhead, a three-tiered crystal chandelier hung, looking as old and beautiful as Boston itself.

I hadn’t been to the theatre in years, and not since they’d restored it to its original grandeur, but growing up, I had adored musicals. The revitalized space took my breath away. It was perfect at setting the mood too. The best shows could take you to a different world, and this lobby was the holding area to start that transition. I already felt like I was somewhere new and surreal.