Page 29 of Royal Deception
I hesitate for only a second before knocking. “Sir?” My voice is steady, but there’s an edge to it. “Can I speak to you for a moment? It’s about yesterday.” I lower my voice. “About the contract.”
Rory doesn’t even look up. “This is a place of business, Miss Woodcrest,” he says smoothly, fingers flying over his keyboard. “We’ll discuss that later.”
I tighten my grip on the coffee cup. “But?—”
“Later.” His tone sharpens, his words commanding, final. “In private.”
I swallow hard, pulse fluttering.
Message received.
I nod stiffly and retreat to my desk, but the knot in my stomach doesn’t ease. If anything, it pulls tighter.
At home that night, I’m cleaning the kitchen when there’s a rap at the door, sharp and short. Kate looks up from the couch, her brow furrowing. “Expecting someone?”
“No,” I say, already throwing the rag down as I hurry to answer the door.
I’d given up on hearing from Rory at this point, convinced he’d let me stew in uncertainty untilhewas ready. But the moment I open the door, I realize I was wrong.
Rory Brannagan himself stands on my doorstep, the crisp lines of his coat cutting a striking figure against the dim hallway light.
Kate’s gaze flicks between us, taking in Rory’s tailored suit, his commanding stance. Surprise flits across her face, then something sharper—disbelief.
“You must be lost,” she says, forcing a polite smile. “This isn’t exactly your kind of neighborhood.”
Rory barely spares her a glance. “I’m here for Clary.”
Kate blinks, clearly thrown by the idea that someone like him would show up for someone like me. Her fingers tighten around the arm of the couch. “Oh,” she says before shifting her attention to me. “Well?”
Heat crawls up my neck. I grab Rory’s sleeve and pull him inside, shutting the door before she can ask anything else. “We’ll be in my room,” I mumble.
Kate’s response is a skeptical hum, but she doesn’t stop me.
I close my bedroom door, pulse unsteady. Rory moves through the small space, eyes sweeping over my neatly made bed, the books stacked on my nightstand. He doesn’t belong here, either.
He turns, fixing me with that unreadable stare. “You signed the contract.”
I swallow. “I did.”
“I want to make a few things clear.” He unbuttons his coat and drapes it over the back of my desk chair. The movement is deliberate, just like him. “This will not interfere with work. That means no discussing it during office hours. No lingering looks. No slips in front of others. Understand?”
I nod.
“Our arrangement exists strictly within the confines of our sessions. One night a week.” His voice is low, even. “That is the extent of our relationship.”
I bite my lip, resisting the urge to fidget. “So, outside of that, we pretend it doesn’t exist?”
“Correct.”
Something about the finality of it sends a strange pang through my chest, but I push it aside. This is what I wanted, isn’t it? Clear lines. Clear rules.
Rory steps closer, his presence wrapping around me like a slow-building storm. “And one last thing,” he says, his gaze steady. “No more orgasms without my permission.”
I swallow, forcing myself to breathe slowly in and out.
“Can you agree to those terms?”
“Yes,” I answer, my voice nearly inaudible.
