Mr. Masters (Mr. 1) - Page 145
He smirks. “I’m trying to tame this roger in my pants, if you must know. It seems to have a mind of its own when you’re around.”
I smile over at him, relieved that my playful man has returned. “Maybe you should give me a good rogering then.”
He chuckles. “Don’t worry, my beautiful Miss Brielle.” He kisses the back of my hand again as his eyes remain on the
road. “You will be well and truly rogered by the time I’m finished with you.”
He called me Miss Brielle. I fake a smile and my eyes turn back to watch the road in front of us.
His force field is back on.
Finished with me.
Why are those the only three words I heard in that whole sentence?
We both remain lost in our own thoughts for the rest of the trip. I’m wondering how this is going to go. I don’t know what he’s thinking about, but I know it’s more than the roger in his pants.
He’s always thrilled to be touching me in the hotel, but when we just stood cheek to cheek and had that brief moment of perfect intimacy at home,
I felt him pull away.
I don’t even know why it’s bothering me. It shouldn’t. I know what’s going on here. He warned me and I know how this game works.
There are no false pretenses—no promises or need to pretend to have feelings that don’t exist.
Don’t mistake this for anything other than what it is, Brell.
What we have is a friendship with a few orgasms on the side. Nothing more, nothing less.
In his words… we have an arrangement.
Twenty silent minutes later, he pulls up outside a fancy, sandstone building, into the car valet parking service. He climbs out, handing the keys over to the attendant before he makes his way to my side to help me out of the car. He’s such a gentleman, always opening doors and walking behind me. It must be his fancy schooling. At least all those school fees get you something for your money, I suppose. I wonder if Sammy is being taught this kind of stuff.
Julian takes my hand in his and we walk up the front steps.
The building is pure luxury. “What is this place?” I whisper.
“Spencer House,” he replies, clearly distracted as he looks around.
The ceilings are domed and covered in amazing paintings. The carpet is red, and the furnishings are out of this world. This is antique architecture in its finest form.
"My god, it's gorgeous." He smiles down at me. "I thought you'd like it. It's the seventeenth century and perfectly preserved."
I bite my bottom lip to try and hide my excitement. He’s constantly telling me little facts of history, knowing I love it.
“It once belonged to the Earl of Spencer,” he adds.
My eyes widen. “Really? Lady Diana was the daughter of the eighth Earl of Spencer.” He smiles softly. “That’s right. Her brother is the ninth.” “Wow,” I whisper. People are everywhere inside. The men are in their dinner suits, while the women are dressed up to the nines. Waiters are carefully walking around with trays of champagne.
“What is this function for again?” I ask.
“It’s a fundraiser for a mental health program for reformed criminals.”
“Oh.” A waiter walks past with a tray and Julian takes two, passing one to me. “Thank you.” I smile.
He clinks our glasses.
“Do you come to all these things?” I ask.
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