Page 39 of Wreck Me

‘Poached, please.’

As promised, Tim drops me at college. He’s also waiting for me when class is over.

As I stride over to the gleaming black car, he opens the door for me. ‘How was your day, Miss Fitzgerarld?’

‘Please, call me Scarlett.’ I duck into the back seat, the scent of James’s cologne lingers in the air along with upholstery cleaner and the tang of leather. It’s just a shame he had to go away. How is it possible to miss a man I barely know? But I do.

‘It was grand, thank you.’ Clutching my handbag and laptop against my chest, I stare out of the window as my fellow classmates traipse by, eternally grateful for the tinted windows. James may not be paying me for sex but I’m sure that’s what it would look like to anyone looking in.

‘Mr Beckett asked me to take you shopping,’ Tim says before closing the door.

I assumed shopping meant Grafton Street. Brown Thomas, specifically. Dublin’s most decadent department store. I assumed wrongly.

Tim parks outside a three-storey building down a side street I never even knew existed.

Curiosity twists in my stomach. My phone vibrates.

Martha will take care of you. Buy whatever you like. But don’t forget to get lingerie. I’m going to burn every single piece paid for by Cole and his club.

Is James tracking my movements? Or is his timing just uncannily accurate?

Tim opens the car door and offers me a leather gloved hand out. I pause in front of the gleaming glass door. James’s credit card burns in my pocket.

He’s already given me a safe place to stay, a new phone and laptop, not to mention the two hundred thousand euros in my account which I still can’t quite believe is real.

My phone vibrates again.

Go burn some of your “boyfriend’s” cash. New condition– I want to see you model the clothes you pick.

Especially the lingerie.

James’s flirtation is powerful enough to ruin my panties from however many miles away he is.

I type out a reply.

Remember the conditions of our arrangement?

His reply is instantaneous.

There was no condition on looking. As I recall, you like being looked at. In fact, I’d even go as far as to say you’re an exhibitionist. And I’m going to devour you with my eyes until you’re ready for me to devour you with my tongue.

Oh. My. God. I’ve never been more turned on in my life.

Before I can think up a reply another text pings in.

Be ready for an inspection when I get back.

James Beckett fights dirty.

And when exactly will that be?

A couple of weeks, unfortunately. Missing me already?

You’re trouble.

You haveno idea ; )

I inhale a deep cold blast of air and ring the doorbell. Within seconds, I’m greeted by a flawlessly made-up assistant in a long-sleeved tailored pencil dress, thick-rimmed Chanel glasses, and a pair of patent pumps.

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