"Well, no, but... I think I felt someone touch me." She bit her lip, forcing herself to stare into his eyes. "How? Where?" He leaned towards her, his eyes traveling down her body, stopping at her thighs, mostly exposed underneath the very short, and very tight, shorts he had told her to wear. All to prove, he'd said, that she needed to learn how sexy she was. See first hand the effect her body had on men. "My ass, I think someone touched it when I passed through a crowd," she managed, her fingers tightening against her skin. "Did you enjoy it? Did you react?" "I liked it..." She blushed, shifting in her seat, knowing where this conversation was going. The part of the conversation that she craved, and the part that terrified her. She wanted so badly to burst, to beg and plead for him to touch her, to take her. The words were on her lips, the phrases and names that she had molded herself to, that he used for her. The duality tortured her, sometimes. A shy slut, a self-concious whore.. Dillon had met him once. It was late summer after one of those charity events, about three months after he’d started working for her in 2013. Dillon had brought the Jag around to the front of the hotel where the event was held and had just come around to open the back door for her when Tom Cavanaugh appeared. Pamela was obviously distressed and was hurrying as fast as her high heels would take her when Tom bolted out the front door of the hotel and yelled at her, ‘Stop you bitch!’ As she reached the car Cavanaugh caught up to her and grabbed her bare upper arm and jerked her around. Dillon saw her wince and she cried out. Seconds later Tom Cavanaugh was lying on the sidewalk gasping for breath while Dillon stood over him, fists clenched, barely able to restrain the urge to kill the bastard. He controlled his breathing and temper; got Pamela buckled in the back seat, went around to the front and got in. Cavanaugh would never know how close he’d come to death that night. He had.
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