The Redemption (Filthy Rich Americans 4)

Macalister gave a dismissive nod. “Of course.”

The director left us at the threshold of the door, and the creak of his footsteps on the stairs gradually diminished until it couldn’t be heard anymore.

Macalister’s head turned to the room, wordlessly commanding me to go inside, and I carried out his order immediately. He stepped in after me, pulling the door closed with a soft thud, and the tension between us drew taut.

“How did you know about this place?” I asked.

“He gave me a tour before I wrote the check.”

We were utterly alone in this room full of costumes. Slips of clothes that allowed people to become a completely different person, and as I stared at him, standing in the shadows between two tall racks, I wanted to be someone else.

I wanted to be the woman he’d fall in love with and break the curse.

In this seclusion, Macalister was safe to look at me however he wanted, and my heart pounded like fists against the side of a cage trying to break free. He was its captor, and he knew it.

He stated it like it was an unarguable law. “I own you.”

It was the truth, but it was hard to surrender. I’d given him everything else. Shouldn’t I hold on to this last thing and use it to bargain for his heart? I dug deep inside myself, gathering all the strength I had not to give in, and lifted my chin in defiance.

I couldn’t say the word, but I hoped my expression told him no.

Rather than look irritated or frustrated, a slow, pleased smile crawled along his lips. I’d challenged him as best I could, and he was excited I’d given him the opportunity to prove me wrong.

It was sexy and terrifying when he charged toward me, and I turned and fled, running as fast as I could in my heels and dress through the maze of towering racks of clothes. It would only be a matter of time before he caught me, and I ran with no intention of escaping, anyway. At the end of the row, I turned blindly to my right and dashed past shelves full of shoes and hats in plastic bins.

At the edge of the room, the wall was lined with cabinets, a seamstress station, and a bare dress form. There was a large mirror, and I caught a glimpse of myself running, my soft pink dress billowing around my legs, and Macalister behind me.

He probably could have caught me sooner, but either he was enjoying the chase too much or was waiting to pounce until he had me exactly where he wanted. He grasped me by the elbow and jerked me to a stop, spinning me around so I crashed into his chest, and I let out a grunt of surprise.

I’d worn my hair up at his request, and so the back of my neck was bare, and his palm slid up to hold me there, steadying me as he dropped his mouth to mine. His untamed kiss brought on delirium. It buzzed through my core, radiating outward.

But he abruptly tore his lips away, like a possessive child throwing a fit and taking their toys back. “Say it.”

Possession was nine tenths of the law, and I felt utterly possessed. “I’m yours.”

His eyes widened. It wasn’t clear exactly how he’d wanted me to say it, if I was supposed to repeat it word for word, but I’d gone with the full truth.

He had one arm along my back and the other wrapped on my waist, and as soon as my words registered, I was lifted into his arms, just enough so my feet no longer touched the floor. I was carried to the empty wall that had been partitioned out in sections, this one for long garments, and he jammed me in the corner, ducking his head slightly so not to hit the hangar bar.

I was set down on my feet, my back wedged between the wall and the wooden partition, and his mouth was hot on my neck. His breathing came and went in a rush, but I wasn’t sure whether carrying me had caused it, or if it was how I’d surrendered.

His voice was dark and rough, filling my ear. “Only I’m allowed to touch you.”

I gasped as his hand moved, sliding over my hip and down until he found the slit in my skirt and slipped through it. He unapologetically stroked his fingers over the crotch of the white panties I’d worn for him, making me shudder.

My hands moved mindlessly, pushing inside his jacket, sliding over his shirt and beneath the braces he always wore with his tuxedo. Because he was old-fashioned and classic and sexy as fuck. But he wasn’t a gentleman right now with his harsh hand up my skirt as he rubbed me through my underwear, and I loved it. Blood roared in my ears so loudly, I had to focus on what he was saying.