Kyrie is having a hard time. Her father was murdered 7 years ago. Her mother fell apart and her brother was just a kid. She needs money now. She's paying all the bills for her family. Her mom is in an expensive mental hospital. Her brother is in college. Kyrie is trying to get through college herself. She's just lost her job and her boss propositioned her. To top that off, she's getting evicted from her apartment. Just when she thinks she's lost everything, a check for $10,000 arrives in the mail. She cashes it and pays off all of her bills. But she finds herself in the same hole at the end of the next month. Another check arrives. By the fourth the check, the notes say You Belong To Me. For a whole year she cashes the checks. Then a chauffeur arrives to collect her. He's to take her to the man who's been sending her the checks.
At first he will not reveal who he is and makes her be blindfolded when he is with her. She is scared but intrigued. Who is he and what does he want?
I LOVED this story. It is a great love story. I was captivated by it.
From the author:
From Chapter 4, “Tests”
I found myself out of bed, dressed in a T-shirt and underwear, pacing the living room, thoughts racing. I ached. Deep down, between my legs. He’d made me hot and left me hanging. I didn’t like that. I wasn’t in some kind of sexual frenzy, just…mildly frustrated. Left curious, wondering, needing more.
Finally, I couldn’t take it any more. I left my room and wandered toward the kitchens. I didn’t bother with pants, since only Eliza would be around to see me, assuming she was still awake. Mystery Man—god, I really needed to find out his name—had said he’d be in his private quarters.
Really? Private quarters? Who says that anymore? The dirty-minded teenager in me wanted to make a joke about it. When faced with situations that I had a hard time dealing with, my go-to reaction was humor, usually bawdy and inappropriate; see also the last few minutes of my thoughts.
After a few wrong turns, I found the industrial kitchen, gaping and echoing and dark. An eight-burner Wolf gas range with an expansive, gleaming hood vent, double Wolf ovens, an unlit stone pizza oven with a long-handled paddle leaning against the wall nearby, a wide island with a white cutting board running in front of a bank of closed, silver-topped, refrigerated containers. This was a restaurant kitchen, done in luxury-grade. There was a walk-in refrigerator, a walk-in freezer, and a six foot-tall wine cooler stocked with bottle after bottle of what I assumed was thousands of dollars in chilled wine. There was another free-standing refrigerator dedicated to nothing but beer: Stella Artois, Newcastle, Smithwicks, Guiness, Harp, Yuengling, Duvel, Chimay…every kind of beer you could imagine, as long as it wasn’t cheap domestic. No Bud Light or Coors here. I probably shouldn’t tell him I rarely drank anything but Bud Light. That was more due to budgetary restrictions than taste preference, but still.
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