Page 27 of The Count

“Climb under the covers and I’ll tuck you in.”

I did as he asked, wincing when I pressed my thighs together. He leaned over me and pulled the covers up, kissing me on the forehead.

“Sleep well tonight, little girl. I will see you at dinner tomorrow,” he murmured.

“Goodnight,” I answered, unable to hide the poutiness in my voice.

“Goodnight, my Mina,” he replied. He turned away and walked out the door. I heard the door lock behind him, and I slipped my hand between my thighs.

I was so incredibly wet. With the lightest touch I could manage, I gathered my wetness and spread it over my throbbing clit.

That night, I came twice with my freshly spanked pussy burning. By the time I finally turned over, satisfied and exhausted, I heard the floor creak outside my door.

He’d been listening.

Good.

CHAPTER7

JASMINA

Time seemed to pass in the blink of an eye. Before I knew it, I’d been there four weeks and it was time for me to think about going home.

Much to my chagrin though, no one said anything about it. There was no discussion of my trip home, what time I would leave, if I would go by train or car or plane. Nothing.

When I asked the count about it, he brushed me off, telling me that we would make plans when the time came. A bit frustrated, I mentioned it to John, and he responded in the same way.

It made me uneasy, more so with each passing day. I had a life and career to return to. I checked my work email on my laptop for the thousandth time. There was nothing from anyone and there hadn’t been in several days now. That wasn’t particularly unusual, but the timing of it made it feel suspect.

I hadn’t left the estate in weeks. Whenever I needed anything, John would go into town for me and when I tried to tag along with him, he just waved me off like it was nothing.

I had accepted that the count would probably never sell his estate, which left me wondering why he even had me here in the first place. He hadn’t asked me to assist with any other property, no listings to buy or sell as his real estate agent. Occasionally, he would ask my opinion on a few properties he was interested in, but it seemed like he was trying to figure out what I liked in the process.

He hadn’t touched me again either.

I could feel myself growing angrier and more frustrated each day. I felt trapped and needy, and I didn’t know what to do. Whenever we were in the same room, there was a palpable tension between us, and I felt myself resenting him when he didn’t throw me over the table and fuck me.

Nothing was said about my departure. Not even once.

Late one morning after breakfast, I walked through the gardens, wanting the time to myself without the influence of anyone on the estate. I tried to stem my fury, but the constant pulse between my thighs made it difficult. I lost myself in thought as I strode past the thick walls, starting when I came upon someone tending the gigantic rosebush toward the center. She dipped her head in greeting as she curtsied.

“Afternoon, miss,” she chirped.

“Afternoon,” I echoed. For a brief second, I stood there dumbly, not really knowing what to do or say after that. She kept her head bowed and I eventually cleared my throat.

“I think I’m being kept prisoner here. I don’t know how to get out. Will you help me?”

She stared at the ground and wrung her hands in front of her belly, nervously glancing up at me after a long moment of silence. “I cannot.”

Without a word, she disappeared around the corner. When I went to follow, she was already gone. I returned to the estate, feeling even more frustrated than ever.

I tried to ask for help from anyone I came across, be it the cleaning staff or the servants that worked the kitchen. Eventually, word seemed to spread that I was asking questions and they made themselves scarce after that.

I started searching the mansion for a set of car keys. I knew the count had a fleet of them housed away in the old carriage house. If I could get my hands on one, I could drive back down to London myself.

My search turned up empty and I found myself standing in front of the entryway to Dmitri’s quarters. The oversized wooden door was locked. I touched the steel knob, imagining the skeleton key that would open it. The wooden surface was stained a deep red that bordered on the color of blood. The rounded top was bordered by a series of gothic crosses etched right into the wood. I traced my finger over one of them and someone cleared their throat behind me.

“You’ve been talking to my staff without my permission,” Dmitri spoke, his tone low and dangerous.

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