She let her head rest on his chest, her muscles gradually relaxing with each of his breaths. The last weeks had been a flurry of stress—between the protest and extra shifts at work. The warmth of his arms, and the steady breathing, and even the smell of sex, calmed her in a way she hadn’t felt in a long time.

“Is this your friend’s bedroom?” she asked, drowsy. “’Cause that’d be kind of creepy.”

“No. It’s his guest room, but I’ve been house-sitting so much I’ve kind of taken over. We both kind of consider it my room now.”

“So his room must be even bigger.” She sighed. “I can’t even imagine trying to fill a room that size. I’d need a lot of clothes or cats or something just so I didn’t feel so lonely.”

His shoulders moved under her head like he was shrugging. “It’s not so bad. You get used to it.” Sadness leaked into his voice. He wasn’t fooling her. She’d bet anything he was lonely sometimes too. “So what’s your issue with rich people anyway?”

Where to start? “They had an issue with me first.”

“What does that mean?”

“I was bullied.” It took a long time to relearn confidence and trust after those harsh years. “I had a single mom who did her best, but it was hard to make ends meet. She was young when she got pregnant with me. Her family deserted her. We were on our own and she had no education. She worked hard and went to night school for nursing, but we were poor.”

“Wow.” He squeezed her tighter, as if trying to protect her from her own story. “Good for her.”

“Kids at school were mean, especially girls. They made fun of me because I didn’t have the right clothing labels. And sometimes I wore the same clothes over and over because nothing else fit. Most of my clothes came from thrift stores, so I wasn’t exactly in fashion.”

“I’d never have guessed.” He lifted a purple streak of her hair with his index finger and smiled.

“Yeah.” She chuckled. “I kinda made up for it later on. But I don’t spend a lot of money on myself. I just got really good at making recycled things fashionable.” Staring down at the stark white sheet, she added, “But I’ve been doing what I can to help those living in poverty since.”

“You’re like a sexy female Robin Hood.”

Laughing, she grinned up at him, but his face sobered.

“So based on some snotty kids a long time ago, you judge a whole population?”

“And my extended family.” She probably should have felt guilty, but that’d never happen. The anger was too deeply rooted. “I know it sounds bad, but I just can’t stand them. They hurt me. When I was cold and afraid, sleeping on the shelter cots at seven years old, do you think anyone cared? No. People wanted the shelter shut down because it wasn’t aesthetically pleasing to the neighborhood.” Bitterness tainted her voice so she tried to lighten it up so she didn’t scare him completely. “It’s not that much of a generalization anyway. We get lots of wealthy people in the shop. They’re almost always snooty and talk down to us.”

It was quiet a moment, and she hoped she hadn’t offended him. She kept forgetting all of his friends were rich. “There are exceptions though.” A picture of Konstantin formed in her mind—his kind eyes, the way he watched over her at the club when she’d almost played with that guy Troy. Sure, there were some nice rich people, but they were few and far between.

She didn’t bother telling him her most humiliating memory. As an adult, she’d learned to love and accept her body, but high school had been hard. When a group of popular girls found out she had a crush on Zachary Baker, they took a picture of her changing after gym class and showed it to him and all his friends. And then they taped it on her locker with a note that read, You’re better off looking for a boyfriend on a farm. Moo.

Back then there was no YouTube to put said videos on, no antibullying campaigns on Facebook, no regulations in the school—at least not any that people took seriously. She’d been alone in her misery, and the torture continued all the way until adulthood.

“What if . . .” He cleared his throat. “What if you fell in love with someone who was rich?”

She snorted. Was he serious? “Not gonna happen.”

“How do you know? Maybe you wouldn’t know he’s rich at first . . .”

“I can smell rich people a mile away in a rainstorm.” She gave him a cocky look. “Nothing slips by me.”

A strangled laugh escaped him. She turned her head and bit his skin playfully.

“Watch it, girl,” he rumbled, making a thrill rush through her.

“Mmm.” She almost purred. Down, girl. “Anyway, I believe you choose who you love. It’s very controlled, very calculated.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Then why does everyone call it ‘falling’?”

She froze, keeping her gaze carefully set on the ceiling. If she looked at him now, he’d see the doubt in her eyes. There was no way she was going to fall for him first. When this happened—if it happened—she would be in control. Maybe a Dom could master her orgasms, but no one could master her heart.

*   *   *

Frustration made her grind her teeth as she typed into her phone.

Hello? You can’t just stop talking to me because you don’t have an answer.

When nothing came back right away, she grunted and shoved the phone into her purse. She took a minute pretending to check her hair in the break room mirror just to give her time to calm down.

“Everly!” Alison, the receptionist, shouted from the front. “Your next appointment is here.”

“Be right there!” Slowly, she inhaled then exhaled a deep breath, watching the stress leave her face. Next, she put on a cheery smile, satisfied that it looked real.

It’d been five days since she’d last seen Ambrose. Four days of texting. Three days of suspicion. He was stalling, which meant he was lying. But why would he lie about where he lived? Why wouldn’t he let her see his place? Something wasn’t adding up, and she was starting to worry he was hiding something. Was he seeing somebody else? Flashes of catching Scott with Mindy entered her mind, making her panic. The worst part wasn’t catching them together—it was how stupid she’d felt because she’d assumed they were exclusive.

But Ambrose had seemed sincere about their relationship. He wouldn’t break their agreement already, would he? He wasn’t living with someone, or married?

She had to clear those questions from her mind now, though, or she’d let her anger out while styling her client’s hair. That never turned out well.

“Hi, Genevieve!” she crooned as she walked toward one of her regulars in the front. “How are you today?”

“Fabulous.” They hugged, then Genevieve stepped back and looked her over. “You went back to pink?”

Everly led her client to her chair. “Yeah. I got bored.” She’d gradually exchanged the purple streaks for pink panels throughout the week. Changing the purple to pink or pink to blue or brown to blonde or black to red was commonplace for her, and for most hairdressers. Coloring her hair was like playing dress-up, only it lasted a little longer.

She’d never cared what anyone thought of her wild hair before, but since she’d done it, her stomach had been twisted into knots, worrying what Ambrose would think. Silly, because she still answered only to herself. She didn’t want a Master who controlled how she looked. But like any girl, she wanted him to be attracted to her. He’d passed a lot of tests so far—was he up for the hair challenge?

Ugh. She wished he’d just text back so she knew he was even alive!

“It’s cute,” Genevieve said.

“Thanks.” She stood behind her client, adjusting the chair to the right height. “So what can I do for you today?”

By the time she finished Genevieve’s foil highlights, her feet felt like someone had stuffed two inflated balloons in her shoes.

“Fucking heels,” she muttered in the break room, prying them off of her sweaty feet. After nearly throwing them into her locker, she slipped on her flats, sighing in comfort, grabbed her coat and purse, then headed for the door. “I’ll be back after lunch,” she told Alison.