I wake up when it’s still dark outside.
I’ve always been an early riser, and according to the antique clock on the wall, today is no different. I stumble to the bathroom where I’m shocked fully awake by the sight of my favorite L’Occitane toiletries. He wasn’t joking about how long he’d been preparing for this. I don’t know whether to be flattered that he wanted me to be comfortable—or terrified that he knows so much about me when I don’t even know his middle name.
The familiar citrusy scent soothes me despite my worries, and I step out of the steaming shower with a towel around my body. The closet contains full racks of clothes I would have bought at Ann Taylor and Banana Republic. I prefer simple clothes, like the cream cable knit sweater and plaid slacks I pull from their hangers. Red Ralph Lauren pointed-toe pumps from the shoe rack will be the only pop of color.
I open a wooden drawer and freeze. Asher has been spot-on about the things I like so far, but this underwear isn’t anything I would have picked out for myself. There are no full coverage neutral briefs or black bikini panties that will hide neatly beneath my clothes.
There’s lace and patterns and ruffles.
One pair of panties has a little eyedrop cut out in the front beneath the waistband. It hardly reveals a full square centimeter of skin, but the thought of wearing it makes me feel naked.
The thongs are made of satin so soft they make me think I might actually enjoy wearing them.
It gets stranger when I try to find a bra to wear. There aren’t any.
As I search through the drawers I find stockings and garters. Scarves. Even a hat, which is surprisingly cute, but there isn’t a damn bra in the entire walk-in closet.
“Problem?” comes a low voice from behind me.
I whirl, clutching the towel close to me, using the clothes I haven’t yet put on as a shield. “What are you doing here?”
“Thought I’d come wake you, but you’re already up. Excellent. I have to be at the worksite by seven a.m. or the guys get the idea they can be late, too.”
“There aren’t any bras,” I say, my cheeks flaming. I did embarrassing things last night. I climaxed again and again—against the wall of my childhood home, in the cab of his truck. While humping a pillow on the bed ten feet away from us. But discussing my underwear with him feels more intimate.
An eyebrow lifts. “You don’t need one.”
I stare at him, more shocked in this moment than when Nathan Fitzsimmons snapped the strap of my training bra in sixth grade. What’s this for? he said. You don’t have anything to put in it. I’ve always been flat, despite the multitude of push-ups I tried through middle school, the padded bras in high school. And I’ve mostly accepted that shortcoming, at least until Asher Cook looks at me with calm refusal.
“Excuse me?” I manage to say. “I’m the one who decides that.”
He gives me a half smile, completely unfazed. “That’s where you’re wrong. I’m the one who decides what you wear and for how long. I’m the one who’s going to tear that off you. But those pretty little tits you’re hiding under that towel? I want access to them any time of the day.”
Pretty little tits? “I’m flat.”
He shakes his head. “You’re small. And I’m big. And you know what? I think you like that. I think it makes your tight pussy even tighter, thinking of how I could overpower you.”
A shiver runs through me, and he’s not entirely wrong. There’s pleasure. And there’s fear, which only serves to make it sharper. What would it be like if he didn’t let me out of the closet? What would happen if he demanded that I drop the towel? My fist tightens on the thick cloth, because I already know what would happen. I would fight him. I would lose.
His soft laugh fills the room. The hair on the back of my neck rises. “Come downstairs,” he says, already turning away. “We have a full day ahead of us. I can’t wait.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Cherry blossoms are thought to be native to the Himalayas. The flowers originated somewhere in Eurasia before migrating to Japan.
Fabric rubs against my breasts with every small movement, leaving them tender. I cheated ever so slightly, wearing a thin camisole beneath the cable knit sweater in lieu of a bra. The plan backfires, because the silk brushes against my nipples. By the time I walk downstairs my nipples are hard and jutting up against the heavy fabric. Awareness of my breasts spreads and spreads, until I’m standing in a strange room thinking of nothing but my pretty little tits.
That’s what he called them, and for the first time I actually believe that might be true. They might be pretty and little. They might be small, if he were to caress them with his large, callused hands.
