The Pleasure Contract Caitlin Crews (book club books TXT) 📖

in the light, his eyes that astonishing blue and yet another banker’s suit that he somehow made a gift to anyone looking at it. “I mean sex specifically.”

Lachlan had laughed. “Why am I surprised that you want to talk about sex directly?”

“Oh. Is that not appropriate mistress etiquette?”

“It’s certainly refreshing.” He’d laughed again.

“It’s a real question. You’re hiring me to have sex with you. But what if I don’t want to? What if I’m ill? What if I’ve decided I don’t like you very much? What are your expectations?”

He’d shaken his head. “My expectation is that if you’re not enjoying yourself, you’ll leave. If you’re sick, you’ll get medical help. And if you don’t want to have sex, you certainly don’t have to. I don’t have any interest in taking something you don’t want to give.”

“Just purchasing it.”

“I like to think of it as purchasing proximity.”

“How has the issue of consent never come up before?” she’d demanded, frowning at him.

“Bristol. Please.”

She’d frowned harder. “You aren’t seriously suggesting that no one can resist you. Do we need a safe word?”

“You can use the word no,” he said drily. “It works like a charm.”

“Not to mention the questionable power dynamics when you’ve bought a woman for the express purpose of not resisting you.”

“First of all, we entered into an agreement. It’s not like I picked you off a shelf at the local grocery store.” Then he grinned, and all she’d been able to think about was sex. The intense glory of his cock. “Second, go ahead. Resist me.”

He’d spread her out on the glass table between them and licked his way between her legs, and it didn’t occur to her to resist. She didn’t want to resist. And after making her come twice, he hauled her beneath him on the floor and fucked them both into sweet oblivion.

“Are you okay with the power dynamics?” he’d asked mildly enough, still lodged deep inside her.

“They seem fine,” she’d replied primly, and his deep laugh had stayed with her long after she’d left his office.

But that wasn’t the end of what Stephanie insisted on calling the practicalities. Part of what she’d signed was a promise to go get a health checkup from Lachlan’s preferred physician. A battery of tests later, plus a ceremonial presentation of his own results, and they’d spent a few stolen hours between his meetings experimenting with what it felt like when he was inside her with no protection save the birth control she’d been on for years.

The answer was, she lacked the words to describe how amazing it felt.

Then all that had remained was getting her own life in order. Because Lachlan Drummond’s girlfriend was there to be on hand for his needs, not to be juggling her own competing career.

Which was handy, since Bristol still had no idea what she wanted to do with hers.

“Am I hiding from my life by doing this?” she asked Indy as she packed up a small bag of personal items she intended to take with her. There was no need to pack any clothing, Stephanie had informed her coldly, as all wardrobe would be provided to make certain it was up to Drummond standards.

And as a bonus, the other woman had told her loftily, you will be permitted to keep any wardrobe items purchased for you at the end of your association with Mr. Drummond.

Bonus, Bristol had replied.

Perhaps more sarcastically than necessary.

“The answer is yes,” Bristol had said without waiting for Indy to chime in, there in her Brooklyn bedroom that was only actually a room when the Murphy bed was closed up. Otherwise, it was just the bed. “Yes, I am absolutely running away and hiding from reality.”

But Indy was Indy. All she’d done was shrug, looking entirely too pleased with herself. “You might as well hide in Lachlan Drummond’s bed, then, draped in couture and riches. I don’t really see the downside.”

There was a downside, but Bristol had been prepared for that, too.

“Sooner or later,” Stephanie had told her in one of their distinctly chilly meetings, “you will become public property because Mr. Drummond is. He prefers to keep the identity of his girlfriends under wraps for as long as possible, but there’s a point at which that no longer becomes feasible. When that happens, it’s my job to make sure that we have control of the narrative for as long as possible. You’ll know when that happens. I’ll seed a few stories and get out ahead of the more salacious ones.”

“...yay?” Bristol had replied faintly.

A response that had not been appreciated, Lachlan had told her later.

With his cock in her mouth.

But that was how Bristol knew that she was supposed to spend her free time on maintenance. As if she was a lawn or an obstreperous hedge.

Maintenance, she had been informed by the icy Stephanie in New York and again on the plane, was her one and only duty when she wasn’t actually in Lachlan’s presence. She was to attend to her exercise needs—the suggestion was that she needed this desperately. Then to her physical appearance. When she’d been sent the itinerary for this current trip of Lachlan’s, her version had come with a list of gyms, spas, and private stylists if she preferred to take that route, all to make certain she didn’t imagine this new life was an excuse to let herself go.

“This seems very trophy wife to me,” Bristol told Stephanie in the car, when her maintenance options were raised yet again—this time in the guise of a “helpful” offer to make the appointments. “And I’m neither a trophy nor a wife, so...”

“I think you’ll find the contract you signed indicated that you would maintain a reasonable level of maintenance, Ms. March.”

Bristol smiled back in the exact same fake way. “That’s Dr. March,” she replied. “And I think you’ll find, Tiffany—”

“Stephanie,” the woman had snapped back.

“—that I can maintain just fine without your interference.”

And in the spirit of rebellion, had taken herself off to the British Museum rather