Intense

“Probably,” Ethan says, grinning.

I walk over to the bed and run my hand down the comforter. It’s beautiful and soft, the sort of bed I’ve always dreamed about as a little girl.

“This is too much,” I say finally. “Really, Ethan. I can stay in something simpler.”

“I’m contractually obligated to provide you with all of this,” he says, and walks over to me. “Besides, I want to spoil you.”

I turn toward him, my heart beating fast, and I take a sip of my wine to cover my embarrassment.

“It’s why you’re here,” he says to me, stopping close. “I want to spoil you rotten, Aria. I want to give you things. But most of all, I want to make you feel things you never expected.”

“Like what?” I ask, a little breathless.

He steps close to me, his body inches from mine. His hand rests on the small of my back as his lips come closer to mine. I think he’s going to kiss me, but instead he veers to the side, stopping next to my ear.

“If you have to ask, you’re not ready to hear the answer,” he says softly, and I feel a chill run down my spine.

He pulls back, giving me this devilish smile, and I want him to come back. I want him to tell me what he’s going to make me feel. I’m flushed and excited, and I can feel my pussy is already tingling and dripping wet. It’s crazy that I feel this way. It’s supposed to be just a job, but Ethan isn’t work. He’s charming and gorgeous.

“Good night,” he says, turning away.

“Wait,” I say. “Don’t you...?”

“What?” he asks, cocking his head.

I looked away, frowning. “Nothing.”

He walks toward the door and I watch him go, wishing he’d stay. As he opens it, he pauses and turns back to me.

“Oh sorry, I do have one rule for you. Stay in this room. If you want to leave it, you have to get permission from me. Understood?”

“Okay,” I say, nodding.

“I won’t keep you prisoner, of course. And if you want books, magazines, movies, a computer, anything, just ask. But don’t leave without permission.”

I nod. “Thanks,” I say.

“Sleep tight, Aria.”

He leaves the room before I can respond.

I down my wine, place the glass on a side table, and then collapse onto the enormous bed. I burrow down into the covers, put my face in the beautiful and immaculate pillow, and I scream.

I can’t believe that I’m here. I laugh and scream into the pillow and laugh some more, completely overwhelmed with my situation. Once I get that out of my system, I quickly explore the room. The gym in the back is pretty nice with a treadmill, a little TV, some weights, and a bench press. The balcony overlooks the city and I realize that I’m on the third floor. The view is incredible.

I step back inside and notice that my bags were discreetly delivered while I was outside on the balcony. I walk over to them and begin to unpack, frowning at my meager possessions.

I don’t know what I want or what I’m going to do, but I have to try and enjoy this. Ethan could still be some kind of serial killer or something like that, but I doubt it. I think the real problem is, I can’t believe that I’m in this place and with this man, and I don’t think I deserve any of it.

But if I get through it, I’ll make over a million dollars. If I live frugally and am smart, I can be set for life. I can afford to go to nursing school, or even go all the way back and start at the beginning to become a doctor.

Anything is possible after this. I just need to figure out Ethan and give him what he likes.

Because there was one clause in that contract that’s been bothering me since I signed. One very important clause.

If I don’t please him, The Syndicate won’t pay me.

Ethan gets a partial refund. But The Syndicate won’t give me a dime. Even if there are still hundreds of thousands, I won’t see a dime if I don’t please him.

I climb into bed, trying to figure him out. I need to start being better at this and fast. So far, I’ve been myself, which is dorky and clumsy and stupid. I need to up my game and work on him.

But for now, I’ll just enjoy this the best I can. In the morning, I’ll see what I can do.

5

Ethan

I finish cooking the eggs and plate them on the large platter. My cook, Michelle, looks on from the counter, smiling and sipping her coffee.

“This is a first,” she says as I finish up. “You cooking and me watching.”

“You’re enjoying this too much,” I say.

She shrugs. Michelle is in her fifties, rotund and possibly my favorite person in the world. She’s been working for me ever since I started making serious money, about two years before Jenkins came. I don’t know how I could manage my life without her. It’s very rare that I want to actually cook for myself, but when I do she’s always around for a chat and some tips. I haven’t cooked anything in a couple years, though. I’ve been too busy.