Shameful | Congressman!Kylo x Reader

Chapter 10: Strictly Professional

HEY AHAAAA 

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It's worse than last time.

Chloé brown leather boots.

A gigantic Goyard tote.

Two bags full of Ernest Leoty and Marysia activewear.

Three Diane Von Furstenberg wrap dresses in chic retro prints, and two tweed minidresses, one Chanel and one Balmain, folded neatly in garment boxes.

And six La Perla bags brimming with full lingerie sets in an array of colors. Now that's just fucking overkill.

But I still can't help but feel giddy. All these pieces are so gorgeous and so, so out of my price range. I pick up a delicate blush-colored negligee and hold it to myself in front of the mirror. I do the same with the rest of contents of the La Perla bag, imagining how I'd look all dolled up and wrapped in these luxurious lace garments. I'd be practically naked.

Like clockwork, I hear a light knock at the door. I reluctantly open it to Ren leaning on the doorframe, self-satisfied smile on his face. He's wearing a crewneck thermal and baggy lounge pants. He looks so cozy and warm.

I stand there speechless. All I can do is stare at him blankly. I suddenly feel winded, for some reason.

"I forgot the last thing," he murmurs, rolling a giant, vintage Louis Vuitton trunk out from behind him. "I don't think your old suitcase is going to fit all of that."

I stare at the suitcase, then back at him. The suitcase alone is easily $20k. They don't even make these things anymore.

I finally muster the courage to blurt, "This is all just too much, Ren. Not to mention, it's wildly fucking inappropriate. Why are you doing this? I'm your employee. It's sick—"

He retreats backward into the hallway, blinking slowly at me, soft smile on his lips. "Wait until you look in the closet."

I slam the door shut before realizing that I'd left the suitcase sitting outside. I open the door again quietly, reaching my hand out to grab it. I mean, it's not a good practice to leave a $20k vintage suitcase out in the open. Besides, it's stunning. I admire it for a second. In that moment, I lock eyes with Ren, who's only halfway through his hotel room door. Was he just lurking to see if I'd grab the suitcase? Does this mean that he won? Am I his de facto sugar baby or something?

I yank the suitcase into my room, shut the door, and fucking bolt to the closet. Upon first glance, it's empty, save for an ironing board and some hangers. I start to shut it, thinking that he's just trying to freak me out, until I see it. A nondescript garment bag tucked in the far corner of the closet, with a shoebox sitting below it.

I reveal a stunning black Oscar de la Renta bustier dress and a pair of shiny black Louboutins to match.

And, of course, he left a note stuck to the hanger: A reward for what I assume was a successful first town hall. Keep making me proud. I run my thumb over the note, feeling the indentations from his pen.

He had this planned in advance. He must've sent a courier to set up all of this shit in my room while we were out. Sneaky bastard.

—

I sit among a pile of designer clothes and lingerie, totally fucking conflicted. It's only been, like, two full days on this tour, and I've already got permanent whiplash from Ren's mood changes. One moment, he looks like he wants to ravish me—eye-fucking me, buying me panties, flirting shamelessly— and the next, he's treating me like an encumbrance. I'm tired— tired of being angry and stressed all the time. And horny.