Jagger
Mikayla had never looked at me with desire prior to moments ago. And I’m no idiot; she was being a fucking tease. I took the cake ready to enjoy every last bite, and had we been any other place then this frivolous overpriced store, I would have feasted from other parts of her body, too.
Her ass was thick and soft in my hands as I pressed her against my erection.
“Are you sure Harry shouldn’t just come pick up the items, Jagger?” Mikayla asks again as we exit the store.
There are boxes in each of my arms and paper bags with frivolous pieces of colorful papers sticking from them in my hands. She isn’t holding a thing. “What are you thinking, Kayla?”
“I’m just…” She tugs that succulent bottom lip of hers through her teeth and her anxiety is palpable.
“What is your problem,” I grit out, stopping before her beneath an idiotic cloudy day.
Mikayla looks up at me. My cock has a mind of its own and it hurts it’s so heavy in my pants. I cannot have her!
“Did I exceed my budget?” Mikayla mocks.
I drop the bags and address her.
“No!” I’ve got a beast ready to charge from my trousers. “You referred to yourself as a whore…” and I’m even angrier at myself for allowing the thought of my parent’s approval of you to cross my mind. And my cock is begging to head into uncharted territories.
“I will be a whore, right?”
“What’s that supposed to mean, Mikayla?”
Her lips bunch together and her eyes take on the glossy look that I loathe having to view. Don’t you dare cry!
It’s a sign of weakness on her part. I can’t stand to think of her as weak. I have to know she is strong and able to handle anything.
Plus, it’s a sign that I care. An emotion I’m incapable of. I don’t care. I … just understand that placing her in the prince of Zihula’s grasp is the same thing as pulling the fucking trigger between her eyes. It also indicates she will become the first possession I ever craved and was unable to own.
I am a man who takes. This is an oxymoron. My inability to have her!
“What are you inferring to, Mikayla? That you will be a whore?”
She gulps as if her throat is constricted. And the ornery woman who met my gaze or slapped me has taken the backseat for the one who can’t even look me in the eye. “You’re selling me.”
I reach down, grab the boxes and bags.
“You are selling me, right Jagger?” she asks. This time the uncertainty has decreased.
I growl for her to walk. “You do not question me, uthando lwami!”
Damn it, Mikayla is spot on. In a sense, I am selling her.
***
The woman at my side is too smart for her own good on occasion, but too afraid to see what is right before her eyes. When Ava Sinclair tempted me into agreeing to the Nivean mission to bring their princess from hiding, I knew Mikayla would look at me like I was ape shit crazy. Most royals who are thrust into a hidden world are raised with awareness. She sure as hell has the confidence of one… at times.
My jaw is still tense that Mikayla would dare tell the nobody of a sales clerk that she is my whore. I’m not permitted to touch her with pleasure or with pain.
Mikayla touches me first. We’re in the backseat of the limousine. She had argued before we left the store that her items would be sent back to the hotel. She has her own investigation to run. Besides, determining how much money I’d blow on her, she wanted to see what I’d spend for myself.
We are headed to the worst part of Las Vegas right off of Martin Luther King Boulevard. The place we’re going is number 4 in the country for crime statistics. There’s a one in nine chances of becoming a victim of crime within a year of living here. And this is where I chose to transport us in order for Mikayla to understand a few things.
“We are going to get a few necessary items in order for me to complete the mission. Mikayla, I do not need to stress that you will obey me. No matter what or whom should cross our paths. Do you understand?”
She takes an unsteady breath before arguing, “Oh, you’re getting a few things to complete your mission. Hmmm, are you going to leave me here?”
“No, you are not to leave my side.” I bark. Second guessing my decisions is not something I’m accustomed to. However, I brought her along because, first of all, Mikayla is not to leave my side. Secondly, she is on the path to become a doctor. People like her have brains that are wired differently. She didn’t believe me about South Africa or Nivean. But she will soon have no choice but to believe it. The limousine lurches to a stop, over unpaved gravel. There’s a seedy shopping center before us, which houses a strip club, a discount leather store, and a few boarded-up places.
The driver speaks through the intercom. “Mr. Windhoek, please confirm if I have traveled to the correct destination? I do believe my GPS has gone haywire.”
“No, you’re at the right place.”
We hear a less than enthusiastic grunt.
My attention returns to Mikayla. “You will stay next to me. Say yes, or nod your head, Mikayla. You’ve been disobedient recently.”
“Jagger,” she murmurs, “I apologize for being disobedient. I will stay right by your side. And you’ll bring me back?”
I shove a hand through my hair in confusion. There is no time to ask what she means, because the chauffeur has opened the door. I slide out first and reach out a hand for her.
“Mr. Windhoek, how long will you be?” The man asks, in an alert stance.
“We will be complete with our business at the top of the hour.”
The bobble-headed nod he offers warns that he plans to drive a few blocks to safety while he waits. I pull out my wallet and slip him a few hundred-dollar bills, my glare telling him to have a dose of courage.
Mikayla’s arm snakes through mine. Fear is contagious. With her cleaned dress, she looks as scared as she was when I stepped into the restroom at Gianni’s on her way out.
“The ballroom dress and the cocktail dress, Mr. Windhoek,” the chauffeur says, holding up two long boxes. He’s still reeks of fear, and I was just about to shove him toward the limousine. But he remembered that I needed her two dresses.
“Thanks.” I take them from him with my left arm, since Mikayla has taken my command literally.
Her face is plastered against my bicep as if she’s attempting to shield herself behind me. Her questions come out muffled, “I only need the dresses? Am I taking pictures?”
“Pictures? What?” My tone is testy as I escort her toward the business closer to the strip club, which has the same black tinted windows. Most people believe it’s an extension of the club, and during my few visits, a few drunken, horny men have tried to open the door.
Mikayla clings to me tighter as I place my palms and hands over the door handle. It doesn’t click. I readjust my handprint into the proper position for it to be read, and the door opens.
“Jagger…” Mikayla’s voice is smaller, and much more innocent than before.
“Yes, uthando lwami?” My response is sincere. I haven’t used the enduring term in the proper tone in a while. I want to caress her cheek, but she’s clutching my right arm and the boxes are in my left.
“Please, don’t let anything bad happen to me.”
I reach down to kiss her…