Page 29 of His Cruel Exception

Logan comes running out of his room, looking just as excited as Dylan, and practically launches himself at me. He wraps his arms around my waist and lifts me off my feet, making me let out a startled squeak as my bag slips down my shoulder and I grab onto him to keep myself from falling. “You’re my idol, baby.”

“Put me down,” I squeak, and he lowers me back to the floor. “Where’s Stacy?”

“Stacy already left for her first class.” he answers, then spreads his arms. “Antonio turned our apartment into a high-tech frat house.”

“Did you know he was going to do it?” Dylan asks, his eyebrows rising as he looks at me.

I shake my head, still trying to process the whole change. When on earth did he even find the time to arrange all of this? Was it before he locked my cock in a cage, or was it sometime after he stimulated my prostate until I filled said cage with my cum?

My face burns, and I immediately shove every thought of yesterday into the deepest, darkest corner of my mind because the last thing I need right now is to start blushing in front of Logan and Dylan.

“I have no idea,” I reply..

“He sent that brooding bodyguard to inform us some interior decor people were coming,” Dylan explains. “Then he lodged us in a hotel so they could work overnight. We got back this morning and everywhere looked different.”

“He told us not to text you, but I just thought he didn’t want us to disturb you while you were fucking,” Logan adds casually, before grabbing my hand and beginning to drag me toward the hallway. “Go check your room, and later, I will teach you how you can thank him in bed.” He stops in front of my bedroom and deposits me at the door and gives me a conspiratorial wink. “I have a class in thirty minutes,” he announces, already turning to leave.

I watch him disappear down the hallway then turn the handle of my door and push it open, only to freeze at the threshold.

Oh.

Oh, wow.

My old bed with the unfortunate dip in the middle is gone. In its place stands an enormous king-size bed with a tall, upholstered headboard in a deep charcoal shade, its smooth fabric divided into neat panels that stretch almost all the way up the wall. The bed is covered in brown silk sheets with a thick duvet folded neatly over the mattress and several oversized pillows arranged against the headboard.

The old wooden nightstand beside my bed has also disappeared, along with the chipped lamp I bought during my first year of college. In their place are two matching nightstands with brushed-metal handles, each topped with an elegant lamp that gives off a soft, warm glow. One of them even has a built-in charging station..

My scratched desk has been replaced with a much better one and there's also an ergonomic chair tucked beneath it. My old dresser is gone, too, replaced by a much larger piece with deep drawers, and tucked into the corner near the window is a large beanbag.

The longer I stand by the door, the harder it becomes to decide how I'm supposed to feel about any of this. My room is beautiful, certainly more beautiful than anything I could have imagined owning. But the fact that Antonio has done all of this without even asking me first makes that familiar, uncomfortable feeling begin to fill my chest again.

I finally cross the room and drop onto the beanbag chair, sinking so deeply into the soft filling that I nearly lose my balance before managing to find a comfortable position. For a moment, I just sit there with my elbows resting on my knees and my head buried in my hands, trying to process everything that has happened since Friday

I let out a long sigh and remove my phone from my pocket. I unlock it, open our conversation, and begin typing a message.

Thank you for redecorating. My friends really like it.

I hit send and set my phone on my lap, expecting Antonio to take his time responding. Surprisingly, my phone vibrates almost immediately, and I pick it up to find a new message from him.

What about you?

I like it too, I’m sitting on the beanie bag. It’s comfy.

I’ll buy you one for the penthouse.

Do you want it in the same color?

Maybe a different one, thank you.

Stop saying that.

My eyebrows draw together as I read his response, wondering whether I've somehow managed to annoy him by being polite.

Stop saying thanks? I feel like it isn’t even enough. You’ve done so much for me in such a short time.

That’s because you’re mine.

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