Praise (Salacious Players Club, #1)(5)

“That is a cute outfit,” the woman says, looking down at my all-black ensemble. It’s a sheer long sleeve top with a Peter Pan collar, a black velvet pencil skirt, and tights with black Docs to finish it off.

“Thanks,” I reply with a smile.

“It’s different, but I think he’ll like it.”

“What?” I ask, but her phone rings, so she steps away. While she answers it, rambling on about some business stuff I don’t bother paying attention to, I meander around the room, taking in the style. Something feels off to me after that comment about him liking my outfit. Is this how women treat him around here? Like his opinion on our attire matters at all.

As creepy as that comment was, at least his office is beautiful. Unlike the cold, sterile feel of the rest of the house, the floor in the office is covered with a rich, scarlet-red rug and the mahogany desk is large with two deep gray armchairs facing it. My fingers graze the fabric of each one.

“He’s coming,” the woman snaps. “You should probably be on your knees.”

Assuming I misheard her, I glance back with a look of confusion on my face, but she’s already scurrying out of the room, closing the French doors behind her.

Did she seriously just say I should be on my knees?

This place is giving me some seriously weird vibes. I’m glad I didn’t bring Sophie, even if it isn’t the ghetto, not by a long shot. Now I’m starting to understand why Beau didn’t want me to meet his dad. I need to just get my check and get the hell out of here.

I turn to leave the office and ask her what’s going on, but then he steps into view. They are in the foyer, which I can see through the windows of the French doors, and they’re talking while the woman moves toward the exit. I can’t make out what they’re saying, but I’m too stuck on the man she’s talking to.

I’ve never even seen Beau’s dad in pictures, so I had no idea what to expect, but it wasn’t this. He’s tall, with a bulky frame and tan, sun-kissed skin. His dark hair is impeccably styled to the side with hints of white at the temples and a streak at the top. He’s wearing a suit, an expensive-looking one in a deep, navy blue.

Only able to make out his profile, I can see enough to tell that his flawless suit and body are paired well with his impeccable face. He has a strong brow, chiseled jawline, and a sandy cropped beard. I’m staring at him as he turns his head toward me, and my blood practically boils in my cheeks under his gaze. I quickly turn my head, facing the ocean as he walks toward the office.

Once he’s entered the room, it’s as if everything in it shrinks, including me. After closing the door behind him, he strips off his jacket, hanging it on the tall oak rack. My mouth goes dry as my eyes cascade down his broad shoulders and the muscles of his back through the taut fabric of his shirt.

“Hi, I’m Charlie,” I start. My hands are clasped in front of me, and I don’t know why I feel so nervous all of a sudden. I’m not normally so skittish.

“You should start on your knees. Never be on your feet when I enter the room. And you don’t speak unless I ask you to. When you do, you will address me as Sir and nothing else. Is that understood?” His voice is deep and cold like it comes directly from the depths of the ocean. I’m stuck on his words, trying to make sense of them. My body is suddenly in a panic when I get the eerie feeling I just walked into something I wasn’t supposed to.

“Excuse me?” I stammer. He freezes in his spot, his eyes skating over my body head to toe, and I feel a flush of warmth up my spine.

“On your knees,” he barks out. My breath is punched out of my body. I should be running and screaming, and I definitely should not be considering lowering to the floor for him. Is he some sort of chauvinistic jerk who thinks all women should bow to him or something? And if that idea gets my blood pressure rising with rage, why do I feel so randomly…aroused?

“Why?” I ask.

He reacts like I’ve slapped him. “Well, you want your money, don’t you?”

Jesus-fucking-Christ.

No, no! Charlotte Marie Underwood, don’t you dare even consider this for one second. This manipulative bastard does not control you, and you do not have to kneel on the carpet for him! That’s your money, and you don’t have to do shit for it.

But he’s watching me with fire in his eyes, as if he’s waiting for me to obey. Every rational part of my brain is shouting at me to tell this guy to fuck off, get bent, and eat a bag of dicks…but the rational part of my brain is not in control at the moment.

He is.

My knees actually start to bend, and I cannot believe myself. When they hit the carpet, I expect to feel utterly humiliated. I want to be enraged. Instead, I’m still gazing up at his face, waiting to see what this psychopath has in store for me next.

He doesn’t want me to…you know…have sex with him just to get my thousand bucks back, does he? I draw the line there.

I think.

Yes, yes, I definitely draw the line there.

“Much better,” he says warmly, and a strange sense of calm washes over me.

Then he steps closer until he’s within arm’s reach, at which point I get a whiff of his intoxicating cologne. I’m gazing up at this mountain of a man when he reaches out a hand and strokes my jawline before taking my chin in his grip.

Hello, inappropriate, my inner alarm is blaring. This is very, very, very fucking inappropriate, but how the hell am I supposed to get out of it now? I’ve already kneeled.