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Defiant Queen

Defiant Queen

Page 17

“Dad—”

“Don’t you dare tell your mother about that. We’ve already had it out. I’m not meant to be retired, though. It’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever done.”

“Maybe just try relaxing?”

He huffs. “You do any of that lately?”

I can’t even begin to tell him what my life has been like, so I give him the win on that point. “Touché.”

“I worked hard and played hard, girl. Don’t wait until you’re my age to have fun. Probably should go find yourself a real man before you’re too old.”

“Dad!”

“What? We both know I’m right. That bastard didn’t deserve you. Too slick. Don’t let the next one fool ya, girl. Make sure you got his number from the very beginning.”

I smile weakly, even though he can’t see me. “Sure, Dad. But it’ll be a long, long time before that happens.”

“You never know. We’re Irish. We believe in fate. The right man will find you, and he won’t let you go when he recognizes what he’s got.”

That’s probably the biggest compliment my father has ever bestowed upon me, besides having the confidence to sell me the distillery and let his retirement depend on me running it.

Tears gather in the corners of my eyes. “Thanks, Dad. I love you.”

“Love you too, Keir. Call me if you want to hire me for a consulting gig. I know a thing or two about whiskey.”

“You’d be my first call.”

We hang up, and the warmth of my father’s compliment evaporates when my phone chimes as another reminder pops up on the screen.

 

You have ten minutes to follow my instructions or pay the consequences.

 

“Shit!”

I don’t want to know what Mount has planned for today, but I do know one thing—I need answers. What does his note on the first appointment reminder mean? I need to know.

I toss the phone on the bed, glaring at it and wondering how he hacked into my calendar, but that’s not the problem I need to focus on right now.

Staring at the black lacquered nightstand, I take two measured steps before pulling open the top drawer. Inside is a box from an expensive lingerie store I could never imagine shopping at. I lift it out, open the lid, and peel back thin tissue to reveal a bustier, a garter belt, and thigh-high stockings so thin, they have to be silk.

I search the box for the remaining item of clothing that I assume must also be inside, but there’s no thong or panties. I look in the drawer, and the only other item inside is a black leather box.

Those never contain anything good, I scoff, but apparently my inner voice decides to play devil’s advocate. Except for when they lead to orgasms.

Do I want to open it? I consider the question for all of half a second before I flip the lid.

What. The. Fuck.

Nestled in black velvet is a ball gag and a silver butt plug, this one wider than the last.

If he expects me to—

My phone chimes again from the bed with another appointment reminder.

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