Page 7 of A Sixpence For Your Shoe (Revenge Brides #6)

CHAPTER SEVEN

Misha

V incent has been showering me with gifts since the day I arrived at work for him in this penthouse. We have been shopping every day, spending money in ways I did not know existed. I can’t even fathom the amount of money this man must have with the way he splashes out on me.

The cupboards in my room are quickly filling with the most beautiful dresses, designer clothing, shoes that cost the same as an apartment and delicate lace lingerie.

He told me every woman deserves to feel beautiful beneath her clothes - to hide the secret of lace - but I doubt he wants me to keep these a secret from his eyes.

We went shopping again this morning so that I could get the latest iPhone and a new MacBook.

He teased me when he said my old phone with its cracked screen and stuttering memory. I could barely open my social media, and the battery died almost as soon as I unplugged it. But it was working fine, and I’ve been ok with that phone for years.

I don’t need the expensive phone he bought me - but I love it.

Now, I’m sitting on the sofa, beneath the wide round skylight built into the ceiling, with him right across from me reading the news, while I play on my new phone - his eyes are on me - always on me. There is some sort of tether in his gaze. A leash that holds me to him.

I sneak glances at him and try to hide my smile as my eyes trace over his rugged jaw line, shadowed with a neatly groomed douchebag, a little longer than when I first met him. His hair is cropped short at the sides and a little longer on top. It makes him even more handsome than before.

The slick, tailored suits he wears, even now at home, make my heart race with desire. Fluttering and dancing and making me giddy like a child. That’s how he makes me feel - with each reprimand, each touch, he makes me feel like I’m being controlled by an authority so fierce I dare not disobey.

But I will.

When the time is right, I am going to push against his requests - I want to play.

But I’m not sure yet that it’s what I’m really here for. How can it not be though? It’s been a week, and he hasn’t asked me to do even a second of actual work. The longer I’m ‘settling in’ the more convinced I am that I’m here for fun.

“Do you want me to make you some lunch, Mr. Vece?” I ask sweetly.

He looks at me across the top of the newspaper. “I told you before, the chef makes lunch for us. That isn’t your job.” His blue eyes are heated, like daggers, piercing into me.

“I could make you some tea?” I push, knowing he gets annoyed when I try to do anything that is not considered to be my job. Not that I know what my job is. But for now, I will entertain myself with agitating him - until he breaks - and I possibly get what I really want.

He teased me with the threat of punishment when he offered me the job and on one or two occasions since I moved in - I pushed it aside at the time, but the longer I’m in his presence the crazier he makes me and the more I want that punishment from him.

I can’t stop thinking about the night we spent together and how he took control of my body and did exactly what he wanted to it. The pleasure was indescribable.

My entire being is aching for him to do that again, but he hasn’t made a move and I’m not going to. What if I misread the situation, and it costs me my job? I can’t take that risk.

I keep waiting for him to ask me to wear some of the lingerie, but so far, he’s made no such requests.

And secretly, I’m disappointed.

“I don’t want tea.” His voice is low and touched with darkness.

I stand up and walk over to him, looking down at him on the sofa. He sets the paper aside. His thick, muscular thighs are spread wide, and I want to step between them, but that would be crossing boundaries.

“What do you want, Vincent?” I whisper.

I’m not blind. I can see his cock growing harder.

“Mr. Vece, little pet. Don’t make me tell you again.” He warns me and my body throbs with need.

I nod. “Sorry, I - forgot.” I bite my lip, lowering my lashes and trying to look sweet and innocent.

Vincent’s eyes roam my body freely. He clenches his jaw, and I watch his cock grow harder, pressing against the fabric of his pants.

At first, I pretend not to notice, but after a while it’s all I can see. The thick, monstrous outline of it is stretching the fabric and begging to be freed.

Vincent lets out a low chuckle and suddenly loses interest in me. He picks up the newspaper again and continues reading as though I don’t exist.

For fuck sakes.

He isn’t like any man I’ve ever met before.

He is in full control.

Most men I know are weak, pretending to be strong.

Vincent Vece doesn’t have to pretend for a fucking second. He owns this city, and he knows it. He practically owns me, and he knows it. Not that I would let anyone own me.

Of course, I wouldn’t. I’m me. But I want him to own me. I want him to devour me in the most dark and delicious ways.

Letting out a small huff of frustration I return to the sofa and pick up my phone again to play and try to distract myself.

I can see the grin traced over his lips.

He is in control.

And I have to learn to be patient.

He’s going to fuck me. But he’s making me wait and I’m dying because of it.

The more I watch and wait the more certain I become that this is a BDSM game.

The taunting, the control, the power he has over me I want to deny - but can’t.

I grin as I flick through the stupid reels I’m not even watching, because I’m watching him.

The longer he makes me wait - the more of my attention he grabs, and he knows it.

It’s early evening and I’m reading a book, lying on my bed, and enjoying not being driven crazy by that man. Even though the pulse of desire never seems to quieten. It won’t. Not until he gives my body what it’s craving so desperately.

The house smells of roast lamb, rich gravy, and vegetables. The chef is almost done cooking. I hardly see him at all. He arrives, cooks, and leaves making no sound at all. It’s strange - as though the food just appears out of nowhere.

Vincent went out for a bit - a meeting or something - he doesn’t really tell me what’s going on. It’s part of the game, I think.

I hear footsteps coming down the passage, but I assume it’s the housekeeper.

Instead, Vincent arrives in the empty doorframe of my bedroom. I sit up quickly, alert, and eager to hear what he wants.

“Pour me a whisky, my pet. And one for yourself.” Then he disappears, hardly looking at me.

I practically leap off the bed to obediently run to the marble and glass bar built into the wall of the living room. But I force myself to stop, gain composure, and walk slowly.

I have a plan. I can’t seem too eager.

While he was out this afternoon, I put lingerie on underneath my body-hugging black dress.

I have purposefully worn a dress short enough that you can see the lace-edged top of my stockings and the suspender belt leading up beneath my skirt. If I bend over, you get an eyeful of almost everything.

I want what I want, and I have ways of making him give it to me.

He’s not as in control of this game as he thinks. I can play too. I can tease and push him right over the edge and make him fuck me. All the while making him think he’s the one in charge.

Vincent is sitting on the sofa, watching me as I walk into the living room. Dinner is laid out on the table, waiting for us. It smells divine and makes my stomach tighten with hunger.

“A double whisky, Mr. Vece?” I ask politely.

His eyes greedily jump over me, but his expression doesn’t change. “Yes.” His dark voice replies.

I smirk. The dress has caught his attention. But wait until he sees the lace.

I saunter over to the bar, letting my hips sway a little more than usual. I’m acutely aware of his eyes on me and it makes me feel powerful.

The crystal glasses chime as I accidentally knock them together when I pull them off the glass shelf.

I set them down and drop three blocks of ice in each glass, then splash whisky over the top.

I’ve done enough bar jobs to judge the levels perfectly.

All the while my back is hot from his stare.

I bend, just a little, to put the ice tray back in the fridge beneath the bar.

I hear him. A low growl, soft but definite.

“The food smells amazing.” I said, as though I wasn’t begging him to fuck me.

Picking up the crystal glasses I walk over to the sofa and set one down in front of him, but it slips from my fingers, knocks the edge of the table and shatters.

“Oh.” I gasp, annoyed with myself. There goes the elegance, the sex appeal - the anything. I just look clumsy now.

Vincent lets out a low snarl as he looks down at the mess. Whisky has splashed across the legs of his pants. Shit. That will be extremely expensive to dry clean.

“I - I can get a cloth and - I’ll clean it up - I just—” I set my drink down on the table and turn to hurry to the kitchen, but I get the fright of my life to find Vincent standing behind me. My arm is gripped tightly in his broad hand.

“That was very expensive whisky, Misha.” He says darkly.

My heart races as I turn my eyes towards him. He doesn’t give a fuck about the cost of the whisky.

But his eyes say it all.

“I’m sorry.” I whisper.

“You will be.” He says, pulling me towards the closest sofa and before I know what is going on, I am lying across his lap with my ass in the air, face down on his legs.

He pushes my face against the sofa and suddenly, to my complete shock, he slaps me hard across my ass.

I let out a loud squeal, instantly delighted. Every cell in me is raging with desire.

He growls deeply as his cock hardens. I can feel it pressing against my body.

Heat pools between my legs as I try to squirm away.

The spanking is fucking hot - but it hurts.

He pushes me down harder, and I can feel more of his cock against me.

His hand runs down my spine, over my ass and then he grabs the edge of my dress and tugs it up. My naked ass, the suspenders, the gorgeous lace lingerie I secretly slipped into - it’s all on display.

And my butt cheeks are throbbing red from his handprint.

His hand slips between my legs, brushing over my pussy for just a second before he slaps me again, harder than before and the moan that falls from his lips is borderline feral.

My pussy is soaked.

He is finally going to fuck me, and I’m dizzy with relief.

Vincent lifts me as he stands up. My face is flushed, and my body is hot.

He pushes me away from himself, staring at me with coldness in his eyes, and a smirk on his lips.

“Go to your room. You aren’t getting dinner tonight. Don’t leave your room until morning.”

I hesitate.

“What?” I stammer in disbelief. “Must I wait in my room?”

“I didn’t say to wait. And don’t make me repeat myself, pet.” He looks as though he would tear me apart and my heart is racing so fast in my confusion and lust that my feet won’t listen to me when I try to walk away.

“Little raven.” He snarls, his face inches from mine. “Go to your room.”

I gasp in confusion and hurry away from him, almost running to my room, desperate to obey in case it means he is going to give me what I want.

But I wait.

Lying on my bed.

I wait for an hour.

More and more angry the longer he takes to come to me.