Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
fawn
We spent five days at The Main hotel, where I was given a tour of the rehearsal dinner space and confirmed a few selections for the night. We have been home for two days, and I've been checking with the staff religiously every morning, afternoon, and evening…
Today, finally, I think that it's here!
Standing in denim short shorts and a white tank top, I twirl a strand of long blonde hair—super silky from this morning's conditioning treatment—around my pointer-finger until it forms a perfect golden coil. My teeth worry my lower lip, leaving it pink and slightly swollen as I stare at the stack of cream and white envelopes arranged in a perfect, intimidating pile on Clay’s desk. “You open it.”
“Hell no,” HJ's voice drifts from the doorway, where he stands by the frame, arms crossed, my shadow, friend, and rat.
I scowl at him, annoyed by that easy grin and obedient position and stance—outside the office, like a good henchman. “Do as you’re told.”
“It’s illegal to open someone else’s mail, Boss. I’d rather not break the law…” He pauses—then bursts into laughter, deep and rumbling and telling.
Something about that laugh warms me despite myself. I roll my eyes dramatically. “Joke’s on you, you dobber. It’s addressed to me!”
Wiping tears from his eyes, he finally gasps, “Alright, open it then,” his chuckles trailing off.
“But it’s on Sir’s desk,” I remind him and myself, nodding at the five envelopes. “Sir’s desk,” I repeat, trying to get my brain to accept this important detail. Sir’s desk… Not yours, Fawn. You don’t have a desk, Fawn.
HJ shakes his head. “Miss Harlow, I really think you should wait until he returns from his meeting with his father and brothers.”
My gaze drills into the top envelope—glossy, black, with my name in silver script.
Squatting beside the desk, I examine its thickness, treating it with the same caution I'd give a strange new species. It could be anything. A wedding card. A letter, though I don’t have a pen pal…
or a regular pal who writes letters for that matter.
I straighten. “I’m opening it.” I snatch it from the top and tear it open like a kid at Christmas. “My card!” I squeal, brandishing the sleek black rectangle. “Isn’t it beautiful?” I cuddle it to my chest. “Lunch is on me!”
Then I notice a letter beside the stack. I hadn’t seen it, or cared, lost in my obsession with the black envelope with my name on it. Now I see it’s a fine from District City.
Sir gets fined?
How… pedestrian.
My lower lip gets another intense massage from my teeth. “A five-hundred-dollar fine, due in seven days,” I murmur, lifting the letter. “Oooh! I’ll pay it with my card!”
“I wouldn’t if I were you,” HJ warns from the doorway, his tone half-amused, half-serious.
“And why not?” I grin and strut towards him, letter in one hand, card in the other, with the swagger of someone who suddenly owns the room and world.
When I reach my personal butler rat, I tilt my chin up and lock eyes with him, daring him to challenge my newfound power. “I have a card. I can pay for things.”
“Boss won’t like that,” he cautions, eyeing me through his lower lashes.
“Oh, won’t he?” I tease; my lips lifting into a cheeky curve. “Well, are you gonna dob?” I poke the card into his chest—inhibitions lost to plastic power. “I have this. This can pay for anything. It can pay for you.”
“It already does,” he says.
A dark figure appears over HJ’s shoulder.
My eyes widen, my throat dries, and Clay Butcher steps into view in a tan-coloured suit and black shirt, wearing a look of smooth intrigue.
“Hello, little deer.”
“Hi,” I squeak, and HJ clears his throat, his smile falling to a flat-lipped expression of duty and respect.
Clay steps into his office.
Did he get taller?
Did I get shorter?
“Bolton.” He nods—curt.
I lift the letter from the city, cheeks bright red with embarrassment and nerves, butterflies with the speed of cheetahs and the grace of puppies swooping through my stomach. “We have a fine. What did we do?”
Smooth.
He strides smoothly over to the stack of envelopes as if investigating the events of the last ten minutes, his eyes slowly sliding over the desk, all the places I touched. “Our fence,” he says, turning to face me, “is too high.
“Huh?”
Clay dismisses Bolton with a sharp nod, his gaze tracking my personal henchman’s exit before settling back on me with a heated message that causes my skin to prickle.
And we are alone.
He stalks around the desk, positioning himself against the edge, intense blue eyes unwavering like a spear wedged into my chest. “It's a monthly expense," he explains, crossing his shiny black shoes at his ankles.
"I am a man of the city, so I pay my way. City regulations say our property fence exceeds the height limit.”
Your presence exceeds the height limit.
I clear my throat.
He clasps his hands in front of him, comfortable, watching me—reading me.
I shuffle, knees buckling. "Ah…” I falter.
“You pay a fine every month, Sir?" The words escape as a high-pitched squeak.
My mind refuses to form the image: Clay Butcher—six-foot-five of tailored authority, whose very shadow commands respect—receiving a petty citation like some ordinary citizen.
The woman or man who wrote this notice, sealed the envelope, and dropped it carelessly into outgoing mail, couldn't have stood in a room with him like I am now—alone.
If they'd ever been in my small shoes, feeling the charge from him, watching how his striking-blue eyes could freeze a man's blood mid-pulse, they'd have changed that fine to a prayer.
“Yes” is all he says.
I shudder at the sound of that single word, a physical ripple starting at the base of my spine and traveling upward until even the fine hairs at my nape stand at attention.
See, even my hair knows he is the boss. My card suddenly feels flimsy between my fingers, my earlier sass dissolving like sugar in boiling water.
“Why not”—I clear my throat and take a little step towards him— “change the fence, Sir?”
“I like it high.”
“Okay.” Sure, sure—I mean, the rules apply, but they also don't apply.
Like, you can't have a fence this high, Mr Butcher.
City regulations say it should be shorter, not the fifteen-foot monstrosity with those decorative white spikes that make our property look like a castle.
But you can pay a five-hundred-dollar fine every month for the rest of your life to have things exactly the way you want them.
That's a concept for rich people, I suppose—turning laws into mere suggestions with price tags attached.
“Can I pay the fine?”
“Absolutely not.”
I pout. “Can I take you shopping?” I pause. “Please.”
“Such lovely manners, and such a sweet request.” He chuckles, and it’s glorious. If HJ’s chuckle warms my chest, Clay’s lights it on fire—it’s quite dangerous, actually. “What do you wish to buy for me, sweet girl?”
An idea pops into my head, my eyes widening.
“I want to pick a suit." I gaze at the way his current tan suit hugs every contour of his powerful frame—the fabric straining slightly across his broad shoulders before tapering to his hips.
The sleeves encase his biceps, which seem capable of splitting seams with a single flex, but never do.
When he shifts his weight, the expensive material flows with him like a second skin, not a single wrinkle daring to form.
His body elevates designer suits to art.
“And a belt. And... a silk tie in the exact shade of your irises," I say, then quickly add through a hesitant whisper, “with my card, Sir. Or it won't feel like it's from me."
He studies me. "Will this make you happy?"
"Yes." I bounce on my toes, clutching the card between my fingers, the embossed numbers stamping my skin. "And it'll be fun. Your new favourite word.”
One dark eyebrow raises. "Fun?"
"Yep!" I shove my card into my back pocket. “Maybe your middle name should be Fun, Sir? Clay Fun Butcher.”
His jaw relaxes with a hint of a smile. "Very well.” His gaze travels the length of my body, a slow, deliberate evaluation.
"You look adorable today, little deer," he rasps, his voice dropping to that velvet-rough timbre that makes my knees weak.
"I can see your nipples through your shirt and the curve of your arse below your shorts. Is that for me?”
I nod; words stuck on my tongue.
My pulse quickens when he straightens from his desk, moving towards me with unhurried confidence. I freeze. He circles behind me, his breath warm against my neck as he exhales and inhales.
I feel a shift. “Am I in trouble?”
"Walk to the boardroom table, little deer.”
Fuck.
That’s a yes.
I comply without hesitation, my breath catching when his hand touches my hip, guiding me until the pretty polished wood presses against my core.
"Hands flat on the table," he instructs.
Leaning forward, I spread my fingers across the cool surface—this table is huge and beautiful, the kind that’s carved over years and needs a dozen men to manoeuvre. “Like this,” I ask, pawing the grain, nerves rushing down a heavy exhale.
His warm breath caresses my neck. "That innocent tremble in your voice while your pussy weeps for my fingers... quite the contrast.”
I part my lips.
He slides his leg between my thighs, separating them. I widen my stance instinctively, hyper-aware of this dangerous man at my back. Aware of his palm now sliding up the outside of my thigh, excruciatingly wary of his large body locking me in place.
His hand trails over my hip, and down to cup my pussy through my denim shorts. "So warm here," he groans. “Warm and wet for my cock.”
"Sir..."
Palming between my thighs, he massages, applying pressure as I grind and rock on the cradle of his hand.
Feels so good.
"Tell me why you’re wet?”
"Because of you, Sir."
Two fingers slip beneath my shorts and the cotton of my knickers, spearing inside me, claiming what is his.