"My sewing stuff?"
He shrugs. "Apparently, yes."
"Why?"
Another shrug, a shake of his head. "Hell if I know. But, honestly, it seems like a good thing. It's what you wanted, right?"
"I mean, as long as my projects aren't fucked up, and my sewing machine was transported safely, yeah. It's just…weird."
He just lifts his palms up. "It's Jean-Paul."
And, I suppose, that does sort of answer the question.
Saxon dons his vest again and snags a long black rifle from where he’d leaned it against the doorframe. "Dress sensibly. Time to end this."
"Hey," I say, stopping him before he exits.
He turns. "Yeah?"
"I hope you understand that I’m gonna get you back for that. One day you're gonna wake up tied to your bed and I'm gonna do sinful, wicked, delicious things to you until you beg me to let you go."
He just grins. "Baby, I'm counting on it." he winks. "I'll have coffee and something to eat for you when you’re dressed."
I dress in a matching set—my tightest, most supportive black sports bra and tight, stretchy, supportive black briefs—not sexy, maybe, but comfortable. Supportive. The kind of underwear that signals to my brain that it’s go time—I mean business. No shenanigans. Let the ass-kicking commence.
Black leggings, black T-shirt. Combat boots, with good tall socks. In the duffel bag I also find my very small collection of hats—I'm not really a hat girl, for the most part. I have a couple though, which I generally only wear to the gym, including my favorite: a black Lululemon one that fits like a glove, has a brim curved just right, with a big enough back opening for my braided hair to fit through.
Thus attired in my most badass outfit, I haul the bags to the door. "Where'd you get your clothes and the guns?" I ask, trotting to catch up to him.
He slows his pace for me. "Borrowed from his guards. The pants are a little short—I wouldn't normally blouse them like that."
I glance down and see that he's tucked the hems of his pants into the boots, blousing them. "Do I get a vest?"
We reach the end of the hallway—last night was a blur, and I only have vague memories of coming to the room. Apparently, drinking a whole decanter of ultra-rare, priceless wine is a fast way to get tipsy.
"Also, why was I sleeping naked?"
He chuckles. "You stripped naked, got into bed, and passed out."
I sigh. "I didn't mean to get drunk. I'm sorry."
He bumps me with his shoulder. "No worries. We were safe, at that point, so the pressure was off. Besides, you earned it." He smirks down at me. "It was a rough night for me, though, you naked in bed with me."
"You could’ve woken me up," I say.
This gets me a snort. "You were down for the count. I’m teasing—I slept like a rock. In fact, I sleep better next to you than I ever have. You being naked was just a plus."
The hallways are a maze, but he seems to know his way around, somehow. It's deserted, silent. The house is lavish, the stone walls lined with tapestries and lit with faux sconces, the floors lined with plush carpet, stained glass windows letting in the dawn light.
Down a flight of stairs to a landing where we can go left into a huge industrial kitchen bustling with staff, or right, through another doorway. We go right, through the doorway, and into a huge garage.
Limos, sports cars, SUVs, classics, concept cars…the collection boggles the mind.
Saxon laughs and hauls me by the hand across the garage. "Focus, gearhead."
We reach our car, the rose-gold armored Range Rover. "And, to answer your question, yes. You get a vest." He opens the trunk, tosses my bags in along with the rifle, and snags another vest. "But I warn you, I've heard they're quite uncomfortable for women with larger busts."
"You know what's uncomfortable? Getting shot. Or so I hear."
