Chapter 15
FIFTEEN
The next morning, I stand in the shower with one foot propped on the white porcelain edge of the tub.
Warm water cascades down my body like I’m in a luxury spa instead of a creepy manor.
Steam coils around me, and I wait for the usual groggy ache in my skull.
But there’s nothing. No hangover. No fog. Like someone’s flipped a switch.
Last night wasn’t a figment of an overactive imagination. The bruise on my ankle is real as hell.
Dark purple marks wrap around my skin like a bracelet. They’re finger-shaped impressions that definitely weren’t there yesterday morning. I run my thumb over them, pressing until they sting. The pain shoots straight up my leg and settles in my core with a throb that makes me bite my lip.
His hands were on me. He worshipped my feet. And I begged for more.
My pussy clenches at the memory of his tongue dragging along my sole, slow and deliberate. The heat of his mouth when he sucked each toe. The way he moaned against my skin like he was getting the best head of his life while grinding against my bed frame.
Any normal woman would be disgusted. Traumatized. Planning her exit. Instead, I’m standing under a hot spray, getting wet just thinking about it, wishing he’d done more than worship my goddamn feet.
I press harder on the bruise, using the pain to ground myself to reality. This is proof. Proof that I didn’t dream the whole thing. Proof that a man was in my room, molesting my extremities.
The question is: who?
My mind keeps going back to Mr. Rochester. Because nothing else makes sense. That summons was a power play. He cataloged my assets like I was room service. But would a classy, aristocratic gentleman sneak into the servants’ quarters to suck toes?
Maybe.
Rich men are kinky. Gil liked to fill all my holes with toys when we were fucking. Not to mention the masks. A guy from New Jersey I met at a club draped himself in leather, put a collar around my neck, and walked me around the hotel room like a dog.
Without warning, the water turns ice cold, making my stomach flip. I scramble out of the shower with a shriek. My nipples go rock hard from the shock, and I wrap myself in a towel. Even the plumbing in this place is torturous.
I jog out of the bathroom, dripping, delirious, desperate for a burst of warmth when I spot a folded piece of paper on the floor.
Fingers trembling, I hurry across the room to pick it up.
The handwriting is different this time, not the elegant script from yesterday’s message, but simpler.
Scrawled by someone untrained in the art of penmanship.
Mr. Rochester requests your presence for breakfast in the dining room. Seven A.M. sharp.
My breath catches. This is it. Confirmation of my midnight molester. He probably wants the morning-after conversation, and I have no idea what the hell I’m supposed to say. Thanks for the foot worship, boss. Next time maybe we could try actual penetration?
Now I’m cracking jokes. This situation is so fucked up.
I get dressed, throwing on the black uniform that still strains across my tits, and run the towel over my hair. My hands won’t stop shaking as I try to button the front, and I give up after the third. Let him see my cleavage. It’ll remind him where his mouth should have been last night.
Goosebumps prickle up my arms. What is it with me and enigmatic men?
By now, I’ve memorized the house’s layout from days of wandering around the estate. I hurry down to a lavish dining room boasting a long mahogany table large enough for twelve. But only two places are set. Morning sunlight streams through tall windows, casting everything in golden hues.
I marvel at the polished silverware, crystal glasses, fine china covered in metal domes, which match an elegant antique tea service. My mouth waters, and my stomach makes a loud gurgle, welcoming the change from salty sandwiches.
This is like a scene from a period romance where the heroine falls in love with the mysterious lord of the manor. Except I’m a fugitive who now has a foot fetish.
Just what I needed: a new kink when I should be focusing on survival.
I take a seat, my palms slick with sweat. The chair is more comfortable than anything I’ve sat in since fleeing Gil’s penthouse. The napkin is actual linen, not paper. And the aroma coming from under that silver dome makes me groan with hunger.
My fingers twitch toward the plate, but I force myself to wait.
Mr. Rochester probably wants to talk about our relationship.
.. Or however you’d describe what happened last night.
How the hell do you confront someone about toe sex over breakfast?
Thank him? Pretend it never happened? Ask if he’s planning an encore?
Before I can even rehearse what I need to say, the door opens with a soft click.
Mr. Rochester strides in looking like he stepped off the cover of a romance novel.
His navy three-piece suit fits his athletic frame to perfection, showcasing broad shoulders and prominent pecs.
Instead of a tie, he wears a cravat, arranged in a wide knot.
He’s freshly shaved, with his black hair curling gently around his brow. The man looks well-rested. Satisfied. Like he got exactly what he needed last night.
Which is a pity, because I’m a mess of unfinished business and confused hormones.
My gaze tracks his graceful movements across the dining room.
My nostrils fill with the heady scent of cedar.
I inhale, pulling his aura deeply into my lungs.
Beneath all that tailoring is a man with unbridled lust. Lust a woman like me can satisfy if I can get a chance.
I’m already picturing myself a permanent fixture in this manor, safe from my troubles and focused only on his pleasure.
“Good morning, Miss Burlington.” He settles into the chair across from me in a fluid movement that screams old money and good breeding. “Did you sleep well?”
I study his handsome features, searching for a sign, a smirk, a sprinkling of knowing. Anything that hints of what he did to me last night. But his expression gives nothing away.
“Not as well as I’d like,” I say, trying to hedge.
His lips curve into a tiny smile. “We’ll have to see what we can do to help you sleep better, then.”
My brain short-circuits. Is he talking about orgasms or melatonin? Because based on the throb between my legs, I could definitely use the former. Hell, I’d settle for him finishing what he started last night.
“Thank you,” I squeak, trying to keep my voice steady.
Mr. Rochester lifts the silver dome from his plate, revealing eggs Benedict that looks like it came from a five-star restaurant. My brows rise. Maybe Mrs. Fairfax is good for something other than looming in the shadows.
I follow his lead, uncovering my own plate to find the same. He raises another dome, revealing fresh fruit arranged like artwork. On a third, flaky croissants that smell like butter and heaven rest in a pyramid. When I take one, I find that it’s still warm.
“Coffee?” He raises a silver pot.
“Please,” I say, my voice breathy.
When he pours it, I drool. The last time I had a cup was on my first morning here, before Mrs. Fairfax disappeared. Since then, it’s been tea bags and hot water.
He slips off the jacket, revealing biceps bulging beneath his cotton shirt.
Then he turns his attention to the food, cutting precise bites with the silver cutlery.
My gaze drops to the forearms flexing beneath his sleeves.
And that mouth, those strong lips I can’t help imagining between my thighs instead of around my toes.
Should I say something? I shake my head. Last time I spoke first, he put me in my place. He’s the one who issued the invitation. He should start the conversation.
Mr. Rochester eats with controlled hunger, like a man who knows exactly what he wants. Each bite is deliberate, savored. The way he brings the fork to his lips makes my toes turn.
My nipples tighten under the dress, and sensation travels south. Arousal is an unwanted guest at this breakfast, but I can’t make it leave. Lord knows I wish I could blame it all on adrenaline.
I’ve seen men tear through food like hogs, stuffing chunks in their mouths, wiping fingers on shredded napkins, tonguing bites behind their teeth to make room for a swig of beer.
It’s the first time I’ve seen a man eat so quickly with so much grace.
Mr. Rochester cuts delicate portions with the speed and precision of a surgeon working against the clock.
His appetite is bigger than any man’s I’ve ever seen, but he gorges himself with class.
When he swallows, I’m mesmerized by the movement of his throat. How would it feel to pepper that neck with kisses?
He pauses mid-bite, the fork halfway to his mouth, and stares across the table at me with those fathomless black eyes. The sudden attention makes my pulse spike.
“Are you not hungry?” he asks, his voice lilting with amusement.
“Yes,” I blurt and cut into my eggs Benedict.
Yolk spills onto the Hollandaise sauce, and I try not to make a mess. The meal is exquisite. I can’t help but wonder why Mrs. Fairfax only pulls out all the stops when Mr. Rochester is at home.
“I have a favor to ask you.” He sets down his fork and gazes at me like I’m the only woman in the world.
Tension explodes through my chest like a bomb detonating. This is it. He’s going to acknowledge last night. Ask if we can make this a more permanent arrangement. I picture myself floating around the manor in beautiful dresses during the day and sleeping with him in the master bedroom at night.
But what if I’m wrong? He’s had enough time to check my bogus references. He might even accuse me of something heinous. Or tell me to pack my bags and blame me for being inappropriate.
“What kind of favor?” I rasp.
“Adele’s condition worsened overnight,” he replies with a frown. “Mrs. Fairfax took her to the mainland for proper medical treatment.”