CHAPTER SIXTEEN #2
“Excellent service as always, Nigel. Please place those on the side table. And might I trouble you to arrange a hearty breakfast from the kitchen? I anticipate an energetic morning ahead.”
That’s it. I explode—snorting loud enough to shake the door.
Nigel’s nose twitches. Barely. He doesn’t look toward the closet. But he knows. Oh, he knows.
“Of course. Shall I reinstate this oral barrier, sir?” he asks as he delicately raises my underwear.
“No, thank you,” Bryce replies smoothly. “But I appreciate your discretion.”
“As always, Mr. Sterling.”
He bows, sets the panties beside the bowl, and exits the room without so much as a backward glance.
The moment the door clicks shut, I burst from the closet, laughing so hard I collapse to my knees.
“A hearty breakfast!” I wheeze. “The oral barrier! Oh my God, you two were so polite, I thought you might start discussing the weather!” I wipe a tear, still gasping. “See? I told you this snobby place had a concierge with a fancy bowl of condoms. Five-star service strikes again!”
“I’m glad my humiliation brought you joy.”
“Indeed it did, good sir,” I say in my best Butler Lord Britchybottom impression. “Would you care for the Wall Street Journal and a vibrating cock ring to kickstart your morning?”
“Okay, you’ve had your fun. Untie me now. ”
“Oh, Bryce,” I sigh, sashaying toward the bed with a hand on my hip. “That was your punishment. We haven’t gotten to the fun yet.”
His gaze darkens. “If it involves using those hundreds of condoms, I’m enthusiastically on board.”
“Nope. Not the plan. You don’t get to touch. You don’t even get to thrust . You get to watch .”
I let my robe fall open and position myself between his legs, my fingers tracing up the inside of his thigh. The way he reacts to my touch, fighting the silk restraints, sends me a rush of power.
From my robe pocket, I pull out my tube of Wet n’ Wild red. I pop the cap and twist it up with deliberate slowness. Bryce freezes, his jaw tightening, his gaze glued to my mouth as I glide the red across my lips and press them together.
“I was going to make you suffer a little longer, but you’ve been such a good little hostage.”
I toss the pillow aside and wrap my fingers around his length, marveling at how ready he is for me.
“Mmm. I’m in for a delicious challenge. I hope it fits.”
His knuckles are white where he’s gripping the restraints.
“Keep those beautiful eyes on me, Moneybags. I want you to witness your fantasy.”
“Petra, you don’t have to—”
His words? Gone. Wrecked by the sight of me bending over and tracing his cock with my tongue. In one long, torturous stroke, I lap him up, base to tip.
Then, I seal my crimson lips around him and take him deep, never breaking eye contact.
“Christ! Fuck! Petra!” The words tear from his throat—a string of broken curses—that have me smiling around his thick shaft.
That’s right, B. Burn this image into your brain.
Because I’m making damn sure I live rent-free in your head for the rest of your straight-laced, buttoned-up life.
***
I’m bracing for breakfast.
As I walk through the opulent hallway to the dining area, I have no damn clue what I’m walking into. A quiet meal, or the flaming wreckage of a called-off wedding? It was only yesterday Nigel lit the Fiona Financial Fuse, and I’m guessing the exact amount due was a shit ton.
Fiona was sweating in her stilettos about the bill not being paid for this extravagant shindig. And Nigel made it clear Casa Cashmere will not accept IOUs or emotional excuses. It’s cold hard cash only.
Did Daddy come through for her? Or maybe she came clean to my brother? I step into the palatial dining room, prepared for carnage.
Except, everyone looks normal.
Whatever the hell “normal” means in billionaire land.
Nigel gestures toward an empty chair. “Miss Brinkman.”
“Lord Britchybottom,” I reply with a curtsey.
He nods, unamused.
An hour ago, this man was politely discussing my underwear as an “oral barrier” while Bryce lay naked and bound to his bed. Now he’s back to stuffy Butler Mode.
I slide into the seat next to Bryce, fighting the urge to lean over and bite his earlobe just to watch him squirm .
“Good morning, Pip.”
“Morning yourself, Moneybags. Trust you got your beauty sleep?”
“Adequate rest, yes. Thank you for asking.”
“Hmm.” I trace the red marks on his wrist with my finger. “Those aren’t the kind of imprints you get from cufflinks. Testing out some new accessories?”
There it is—a tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth. Barely there, but I catch it. Why? Because I’ve spent a decade memorizing this man’s micro-reactions like flashcards for the SATs.
And I love that I’m the only one who knows him that well.
Everybody else sees the golden boy. I see the man who only recently discovered he has a kink for being tied up and bossed around.
Fuck, I want to drag him back to bed and corrupt him some more.
I should stage a kidnapping. Find some remote island where we can live out our lives in a sex bubble of perpetual happiness. Once he got over the initial shock, I bet he’d be into it. I can always tase him if he doesn’t come willingly.
Nigel clears his throat. “Miss Muffy will not be in attendance this morning. She requires additional time with her styling team following a most vigorous walk on the beach.”
PING! PING! PING!
He rings a little silver bell. “Breakfast is served.”
Synchronized staff descends on the table, placing tailored plates before us.
I glance down at the masterpiece before me and nearly moan out loud. A full English breakfast—eggs, bacon, sausages, baked beans, mushrooms, tomatoes, black pudding, and toast. And I’ve already devoured half of it in three bites .
The espresso alone is a religious experience. The best fucking coffee I’ve had in my life, and that’s not just post-orgasm hunger talking (I don’t think).
If I do kidnap Bryce, this espresso comes with us.
Across the table, Fiona is sipping celery juice. “Smells delicious, but I’m fasting for my dress fitting later,” she says sweetly. “Hana’s joining me in solidarity.”
“Only juice ’til noon,” Hana chirps. “Petra, that bacon looks scrumptious. Is it crispy? I bet it is. I adore bacon. I wish I had your metabolism.”
I grin. “That’s why God invented Spanx.”
Gavin narrows his eyes at me over the rim of his coffee. “Since when do you eat breakfast, Wildcat?”
“I woke up with an appetite.”
Bryce’s hand pauses mid-toast buttering. Then his hand slides under the table and squeezes my thigh with affection.
Tink! Tink! Tink!
Fiona taps her spoon against her glass. “Attention, please. We’ve decided to cancel the joint bachelor and bachelorette parties for tonight. Instead, Gavin and I are going to have a romantic evening on the beach, privately.”
“Since we’re forgoing a honeymoon with all my work responsibilities,” Gavin says, “Fi figured we should have one night free from wedding chaos and company stress.”
“Nigel,” Fiona says, “our fabulous sunset beach picnic will be ready by tonight, correct?”
“Indeed, madam,” he replies smoothly. “And the matter from our conversation yesterday has been handled in full.”
Fiona nods. “As expected. ”
Nigel continues, “Arrangements are underway for the additional wedding guests arriving tomorrow. Some shall be lodged at hotels in town, while others will reside here on the estate.”
My detective-brain does the translation:
The money came in. Everything is paid for. Problem solved. Nothing to see here.
Gavin thanks Nigel for the excellent service, then lifts Fiona’s hand and presses a kiss to her knuckles. She glows with what could actually be… true happiness.
For a split second (and I can’t believe I’m thinking this), the smitten look she’s giving my brother seems genuine.
C’mon, brain… That’s crazy talk. I need my besties.
I reach for my phone and shoot off a text.
GROUP CHAT : CPK FOREVER
Me : Quick poll: Do people ever change? Really?
Cam : Define “change.” Like start recycling? Or like, thinking my influencer bosshole will change from being a prick to a tolerable human being?
Me: What if this Fiona grudge isn’t about her anymore—and I’m just clinging to it?
Katie: I don’t know. Your bullshit detector is usually spot-on.
“Oh my gosh, Fiona!” Hana squeals, bouncing in her chair. “Your newsletter yesterday about that sweet bulldog needing eyelid surgery to blink again? I didn’t even finish reading—I hit donate on the spot! ”
Fiona preens. “What’s the point of living our dream if it doesn’t ripple out and help others?”
I almost roll my eyes— almost.
Maybe she means it.
Perhaps I am dumping my own issues onto Fiona because I can’t let go of the past. Maybe she’s actually doing some good in this crazy world of the one percent. Maybe my bitterness has been blinding me.
“You know what? I’m gonna sign up for that newsletter,” I say, mouth half full. “Hana tells me it’s life-changing.”
Fiona pauses, caught off guard. “Oh. Well… In that case, you simply must check out my new auction site—PawsitivelyPosh.com! It features Echo’s latest work. All proceeds benefit Furry First-Class—we provide spa treatments for shelter animals with abandonment issues.”
Spa therapy for anxious rescue pets? That’s… actually kind of sweet.
“Let me see,” I say, opening the site on my phone.
The homepage loads … and wow!
Painting one: Echo, in all his shirtless glory, is a centaur using his feet to play a trumpet. Naturally.
Scroll.
Painting two: Echo, fully nude, curled around a banana tree, surrounded by flamingos in togas mid-jungle orgy. Yikes.
Scroll.
Painting three: Echo, buck naked again, breastfeeding a sloth. Tender. Unsettling.
And seared into my memory banks forever.
I can’t stop scrolling. Most of these paintings have already been sold. For millions of freaking dollars .