Praise (Salacious Players Club, #1)(43)

The look on his face doesn’t look playful or kind. His jaw is still clicking as he clenches his teeth. His gaze still hard on me before he turns and marches toward the front door.

I quickly look back at Drake, who doesn’t even bother to look apologetic. He snickers to himself.

Yep, I hate him.

With the vibrator snugly in place, but still and quiet—thank God—I rush off behind Emerson.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

He gives me one quick, impatient glance before replying, “Out to lunch.”





RULE #19: NOT ALL PUNISHMENTS ARE BAD.





Charlotte





I’m so fucked. Emerson is silent in the car next to me as we drive and I still can’t really tell if he’s mad at me for the way I treated Monica or for flirting with Drake or for wearing the vibrator without his permission. Or all of the above.

The thing is…I don’t quite know what’s right or wrong anymore, and that doesn’t seem fair. If this was a normal secretary job, a normal Dom/sub situation, or a normal romantic relationship, I would at least know what was expected of me. But we’re not any of those things. We’re a little of everything and it’s confusing as hell.

And then there’s the nagging fear that Emerson was off doing God knows what with Monica in the club. Would I be upset if I found out they had sex? Yes. Do I have any right to be? No.

It occurs to me as I play possible scenarios over and over in my head that it would actually bother me more if I found out he was treating her like a sub, making her bow to him, being Sir to her, praising her rather than fucking her. Don’t get me wrong, they both physically hurt to think about, but the idea that she was being his good girl makes me want to go ballistic. That can’t be allowed. He would surely know how much that would destroy me, and there’s no way he’d do it. Right?

We pull up to a fancy restaurant with valet parking. It’s on a golf course, and someone opens my door for me when Emerson pulls up to the front door. He gives them his name at the hostess stand, and within minutes, she’s walking us to our table. Did he have this planned? We never go out to eat. He pulls out my chair for me, and I try to act natural as I take a seat, letting him push me toward the table. Before walking back to his chair, he leans in and presses his lips against my ear. I stiffen immediately.

“Behave yourself,” he whispers, and a chill runs down my spine.

Behave myself? What’s that supposed to mean?

Everything is seemingly normal as the waiter takes our drink order. I request a water because honestly, I’m parched. This whole thing has me feeling so unsettled and nervous. It’s like I have a time bomb strapped to my chest—or rather, shoved up my vagina, and Emerson is holding the detonator in his pocket.

We don’t say a word to each other as we browse the menu, but I can’t think. I can barely read, and I swear, I’m sweating.

“Will you order for me?” I ask, setting my menu down.

He gazes at me over the top of his. “What’s wrong? Feeling nervous?”

I look up at him. “Yes. Of course.”

“Why?”

My brow furrows. “You know why.”

“We’re in public, Charlotte. You can’t expect me to cause a scene here, do you?”

I let out a heavy breath, but I don’t answer. He’s baiting me, and I want to scream at him. The restaurant is so quiet. There’s gentle piano music playing, and delicate chatter fills the room. But I’m still sitting here with a vibrator inside me, and I know at any moment it’s going to come to life and I don’t know how I can possibly keep my cool when it does.

I just know that I cannot let Emerson down.

After the waiter returns, Emerson orders us both today’s special, which is pecan-crusted chicken and orzo salad. Meanwhile, I gulp down my ice water like I just ran a mile.

It’s silent between us again, and I glare at him, waiting for him to move or say something. Finally, I decide to be the one to start.

“Was she one of your special secretaries?” I ask quietly, glancing around to make sure no one is listening.

“Yes,” he replies plainly. “Is that why you were so rude to her?”

“I wasn’t rude. You asked me to greet her, so I did.”

“I didn’t ask, Charlotte.” He leans back in his chair, looking smug and handsome, making me even more mad at him.

“No, you didn’t. You ordered me to, and you don’t always do that.”

“Do you like it when I order you to?”

I inhale, not sure how he wants me to answer that. “Sometimes.”

“Not all the time?”

“I don’t know. I just…” I don’t even know what I’m trying to say. I’m flustered, feeling too many things I can’t seem to put words to.

“Do you know why I ordered you to, Charlotte?”

“Because you knew I didn’t like her.”

There’s a gentle lift at the corner of his lips. “Because I wanted her to know you were more than just a regular secretary. I wanted to make it clear that you are mine.”

Oh. My lips open to reply, but no words come out. He was…claiming me? Showing her I was his new girl. Why didn’t I pick up on that? How do I even feel about that?