Page 15 of Dean's Delinquent

Such a pretty little thing all wrapped up in lovely dark blue that shows off her eyes to perfection. Only, as she sits across from me, they seem dull as opposed to when she was fighting me in my office. Following her gaze, I note her mother’s pinched face. It tells me all I need to know.

Even now, I watch as Ashleigh strains to keep her shoulders upright and her back ramrod. Such ridiculousness. As if I or anyone else here cares who has the straightest backs. I, for one, only care about who has the deepest pockets.

Leaning over, I bring my lips as close to her ear as I dare while in public. “You needn’t look so strained. Relax. Have a drink.”

“I’m not old enough,” she whispers.

“That’s right,” I tease, resisting the urge to glide my fingers up the smooth column of her neck. “You’re just a baby.”

She turns and spears me with a molten look. There. There’s that gleam in her eyes from earlier. “I’m old enough.”

My cock pulses at her blatant response. “Old enough for what?” I counter, desperate for her to say it, to make the first move.

Could I be forgiven if she comes to me willingly? Isn’t there some sort of plausible deniability if she throws herself at my feet, and I merely give into the temptation she offers? No. Not with who her parents are.

I might be able to get away with that if she was alone, desperate, and with no one to care about her reputation. Then again, if that were the case, she’d already be signing my contract the moment she sassed me in my office. Fucking politics.

“Old enough for what, Miss Hartwell?” I ask again, capturing her gaze with my own.

Her skin pebbles under my breath as her chest hitches, forcing the swell higher above the plunging decolletage. If only there weren’t so many witnesses. How easy would it be to slide my hand down the front of her dress to graze her nipple?

For a moment, I’m transfixed by the tremble of her lower lip as she darts her tongue along the pink flesh. Bold of her to come to an event like this with such minimal makeup, but I find that I like her fresh face in and amongst all these painted women vying for money and attention.

“John,” a voice rumbles next to me, shattering the moment between us.

Ashleigh pulls away and presses a hand to her cheek before grabbing a glass of water and sipping on it. At least I know she’s not completely unaffected. If anything, she seems far more affected than I actually expected.

Her arousal in my office could have easily been her body’s way of processing the pain she was forced to endure. Here, with all these people milling around and my paddle nowhere in sight, she still wants me. That’s good at least. It might make her more willing to submit to me whenever I find the weak link that will allow me to drag her into my fold.

“Thatcher.” I rise and shake the man’s hand, applying a touch more pressure than usual. If he notices, he shows no sign. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here tonight. Your secretary said there was a chance you wouldn’t make it.”

His lips part into a predatory grin as he motions towards the people taking their seats. “And miss this? The drudgery of a benefit always makes the after party far more worth it.”

My lips thin as he speaks without any care to his words. Is the man a moron? Not everyone in attendance is a member of The Society. He should know not to be so careless.

Right on cue, the nosey reporter perks up and looks between him and me. “There’s an after party? Is this something I’m invited to as well?”

He glances down at her, and I watch as his gaze dips down the front of her gown. It’s as if he thinks he can catch a glimpse of paradise not even I have had the pleasure of looking upon. Jealousy rears its ugly head as I’m forced to introduce the girl to this snake.

“Thatcher, may I introduce to you Ashleigh Hartwell?”

He takes her hand in his and brings it to his lips, making a grand show of kissing the back while gazing into her eyes. “Hartwell. Any relation to Jackson?”

She goes to pull her hand from his grasp, but he doesn’t let go. To her credit, there’s no sign or hint of fear, only determination. “He’s my father.”

“I see. Such good stock. To be in the presence of a Hartwell is truly something worth celebrating.” Pulling her wrist closer to him, he turns it this way and that, studying it for a moment before looking down at her other hand. “But I see you have no bracelet on you. John, what is the meaning of this? Someone this ravishing should be wearing a bracelet.”

Don’t I know it? Only, if I had my way, she’d be wearing a lot more than a simple leather thong denoting she’s a Society submissive. She’d be wearing my collar around her throat and little else.

“She’s here to represent Lofty’s new newspaper, the Loftry Lantern.”

“Ahh. The press. I see.”

When he finally lets go, she brings her hand back to her lap and flashes him a bright smile. It’s forced, pinched, and doesn’t completely go all the way up to her eyes. Without him seeing, she surreptitiously wipes the back of her hand against the table linens, and it takes every bit of willpower I own not to laugh.

“I did not think a bracelet was necessary when wearing a dress this grand. It seems to make a statement all on its own. Don’t you think? A simple necklace and a delicate pair of earrings are all that’s needed to complete the look. But then, you don’t strike me as the type of man to actually give a damn about what a woman is wearing as long as she looks as good out of her clothes as she does in them. Am I correct?”

For a moment, his mask slips, showing just a glimpse of who he really is. And not surprising. Thatcher prefers his submissives to be arm candy and nothing else. Heaven help if they ever show even a hint of a backbone or a brain.

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