Page 15 of The Good Girl Effect (Salacious Legacy #1)

Camille

I don’t sleep well all night. The image of that letter on his nightstand haunts my dreams. Even my subconscious imagines him opening it, fuming with anger that I had the audacity to speak my mind to him.

When my alarm goes off at half past six, I climb reluctantly from under the covers to face the day. Ambling tiredly to the door, something crinkles under my feet as I reach for the door handle.

I glance down and stare at a folded piece of paper on the floor.

Realizing that it’s a letter is like a shot of espresso to my heart. My name is written on the front in his handwriting. In a rush, I pick it up and stare at it.

Oh my God, he wrote me back.

He wrote me back.

I have to take a moment before reading his response. Bracing myself for disappointment, I consider that what is inside is probably his very formal request to never speak of this again.

Biting my lip, I cautiously peel it open. Then my eyes ravenously read his response.

Camille

When I said you don’t belong here, I meant that you are far too sweet and innocent to know what you are asking me to do.

And I stand by this assumption.

If you think any of this could be accomplished without sex, then you have no idea what it is I would do in these demonstrations. You have no idea who I am or what I like.

If you are so certain that I am the man to teach you, then I think you should know what you’re asking. So if you are so curious, then I will tell you now.

First of all, you would be naked for me, stripped of every ounce of clothes on your body. Your hair would be braided down your back so it does not get in the way. You would start on your knees for me, blindfolded, and you will not speak unless I tell you to.

I would bind your arms and legs in a harness so that you could not move them.

You would be completely and utterly bound for me. Every one of your senses would be heightened.

Do you understand? You would be at my mercy, Ms. Aubert. I would own you.

If you think that would not involve sex, then you don’t know what you are getting yourself into.

I’ll be clear so that you understand.

When I have you tied up, I will want to fuck you.

And when you are tied up for me, you will want me to.

In fact, you’ll beg for it.

You’ll beg for my cock in your sweet, dripping little cunt.

If this letter scares you—good. It’s meant to.

I am not a kind or gentle man, Camille. And I’m no fucking teacher.

I want you to fully understand what you ask of me because there is no chance of us going down this road with any part of it remaining innocent or appropriate.

So tell me. Are you still curious?

My hands are trembling as I hold the paper. Blood heats my body like lava as I read the filthy words again and again and again, gasping each time I imagine exactly what he would do to me.

Out of everything I expected him to reply, this was definitely not it.

Gauging my reactions, I try to determine exactly how I feel about it.

I know how I should feel. Alarmed. Disgusted. Terrified.

But in truth, I’m none of those things. In fact, I’ve never felt more excited.

He said he wanted his letter to scare me, but it doesn’t. He thinks I’ll be turned off by his perverted words, but I’m not.

Tiny footsteps steal my attention, so I shove the letter into the drawer of the desk and quickly compose myself, ready to face the little girl who needs my attention.

Coming out of the bedroom, I find Bea standing in the hallway, still in her pink satin pajamas and her hair a mess.

“J’ai faim,” she mumbles sleepily as she rubs her eyes.

“What would you like for breakfast?” I reply, forcing a smile.

She shrugs as she shuffles into the kitchen. Quickly donning my apron and cleaning up, I begin to make breakfast for Bea and myself. She colors quietly in her sketchbook while I work, and I worry that she can sense my discomfort.

I don’t feel as calm and comfortable as I normally do. In fact, I dread this entire day. It’s Saturday, which means I have to entertain her all day while her father sleeps upstairs. We won’t have a single moment to discuss whatever this is.

And we won’t have a single moment to do any of those provocative things he spelled out in his letter.

Get it together, Camille.

I’m not here to screw Jack St. Claire in my free time. I’m here to take care of this precious little girl without a mother. I’m here to help this family.

After serving Bea her breakfast, I sit down across from her and pick at mine. My stomach is too knotted to eat.

My gaze flicks to the stairwell every few minutes, wondering if he is going to come down at any point today. What on earth would I do if he did? Just act normal? Act like he didn’t explicitly spell out how he would do deplorable and enticing things to me?

I don’t know if I can do that.

After breakfast, Bea goes to her room to play. I set out her dress and tights for the day and help her to get cleaned up. Everything feels like going through the motions. I’m just passing the time.

Once she’s settled, I pat her on the head delicately. “I just need to get dressed. Then we can go to the park.”

“Okay,” she chirps excitedly. She’s quietly playing with her dolls as I slip out of her room and down to my own.

Once I’m hidden behind the door, I rush to the desk to read the letter again. My fingers graze my lips as I devour every word once more. I can’t help but imagine him doing all these things to me in elaborate detail. I’ve never felt more turned on in my life.

Finally, I sit in the seat and pull out a new, blank notepad. Just like last night, I tell him everything straight from the heart.

Dear Jack,

I am still curious, and I don’t scare easy.

I am not an innocent or naive woman.

If you think I don’t want the things you’ve described in your letter, you’re wrong. I want all those things, and I’m not afraid.

I want to know what it feels like to be bound the way you promise. And everything that comes with it.

So tell me. Are you a man of your word?

Or was this all talk?

Camille

When I’m done with my response, I quickly get dressed. After twisting my messy curls into a clip at the back of my head, I emerge from my room and tell Bea to get ready to leave.

While she’s busy getting her shoes on, I scurry up the stairs with my letter. My fingers are shaking as I tiptoe down the hall toward his room. Then, just as he did sometime last night or early this morning, I slide my letter under the door for him to read when he wakes.

There’s no taking it back now.

Bea and I come home from the park in time for lunch. I take a peek up the stairs and see no sign of Jack at all. I assume if he works all night, then he would probably sleep all day.

I can’t help but imagine my letter still lying on the floor, waiting to be read.

“What’s wrong?” Bea asks when she finds me sitting on the sofa with my face in my hands, distressed about what I’ve written in that letter.

I plaster a fake smile on my face as I shake my head. “Tout va bien,” I reply, trying to assure her that everything is fine.

There is an expression of concern on her face, and I’m plagued with guilt. It dawns on me then that all the adults in Bea’s life have either left or retreated in their grief. She needs me to hold it together for her.

So I quickly shove away all thoughts of Jack and the letters, and I give her my full attention. After making lunch together, we spend the rest of the afternoon working on a puzzle, then reading a book, and finally, she settles down in her room for quiet time.

When I check on her after fifteen minutes and find her asleep, I breathe a sigh of relief. As much as I love spending my days with Bea, I am more exhausted than not.

I’m wiping down the counters in the kitchen when I hear movement upstairs. He’s awake—reading my letter at this moment. I freeze, waiting in anticipation. I can practically hear my heart thumping in my chest.

With a humiliated squeak, I cover my face with my hands and wait for his response. A long time goes by in silence. I continue to clean the kitchen, then prep for dinner. My eyes flash to the stairwell again and again.

I’m leaning against the counter when I hear his steps coming down. That invisible string between us pulls him nearer and nearer. The house is so quiet that I can barely breathe. I fully expect him to pass by the same way he does every day, but I hope he doesn’t.

When he appears in the doorway to the kitchen, all the air is sucked from the room. I see him so rarely that every time he stands before me, I am reminded of just how handsome he is. Dark hair, a chiseled jaw, piercing eyes, and a little dimple in the center of his chin.

He stands in silence, staring at me. The words in our letters hover around us like promising threats. Then I glance down and see my last letter held tightly in his hand. My breath hitches in my chest.

As he takes one menacing step after another toward me, I lean into the counter pressed against my lower back. He doesn’t stop his advances until his body is flush against mine, and I have to practically bend backward to hold his stare.

He lifts a finger and presses it to my mouth to keep me quiet.

As if I could speak. I can hardly breathe.

His eyes bore into mine as he brings his mouth closer. I’m thrown off by his proximity when he whispers, “You are a stubborn little thing, aren’t you?”

Silently, I nod, making him crack a smile. It’s the most warmth he’s ever given me, and I’m hungry for more.

“You’re playing with fire, you know that? I can’t seem to say no to you, although I should.”

His fingers drift away from my lips, but I don’t open my mouth or utter a word.

“I am a man of my word, so I will show you. But that’s all. A simple lesson. Anything more would be inappropriate. So we’ll see just how curious you are.”

I suck in a breath, forcing myself to remain calm.

“Midnight. Upstairs. Understand?”

Again, I nod.

“Good girl,” he replies, and it has me melting against the cabinets.

The effect of those words alters my brain chemistry. They have me wanting to pull him closer, bury myself in his arms, and do whatever he wants as long as he praises me like that again.

I never want his body to move away from mine. I’d like to spend the rest of the day pressed against him, feeling his gaze bore into me like basking in the warmth of the sun.

Regardless of what I want, he pulls away anyway. I watch as he walks out of the room, a disgruntled wrinkle between his brows. My eyes catch on the gold ring on his finger, and I’m reminded of how wrong this is. I’m panting in the kitchen, waiting for my body to recover from what just happened.

Moments later, the front door opens and closes, and I know he’s gone. And I’m left knowing that the next time I see him, it will be under very different circumstances.