“Now you do.” He wraps the towel around his lower half and walks over to the patio table where I’ve been eating at during the days.
I follow him but stop a few paces away when he sits down.
I’ve never met anybody who had such overt sex appeal. It’s like it’s too much for one person to have.
Maybe I find it so fascinating because I’ve been so sheltered for the last five years. Or rather trapped with a monster.
I moved from one to another, except this monster is doing something to me I can’t quite comprehend.
“You left the window and door open,” I state. “How comes you did that? Please don’t tell me I earned it.”
“No, I just felt like it. You may go to every room except my office, and of course outside.”
Of course.I can’t hide my disappointment. A very small part of me thought he might let me go.
“Thanks, I guess it’s better than staring out the window of your room.”
“Come here to me,” he says reaching out his hand.
I walk closer but stop again when he flips out his leg for me to sit in his lap.
I know what will happen if I touch him and we’re outside. I was embarrassed enough the other night when I know people heard us having sex.
I don’t care if he takes me over his knee, I’m not having sex outside.
“Relax, lucky for you I don’t like anyone else looking at my woman, so we’re not doing anything out here.”
My woman…
I hate the way I like how that sounds and the way he crooks his finger at me, summoning me over.
I walk up to him and he pulls me into his lap.
Our eyes meet and he slips one firm arm around my waist, holding me in place.
He reaches on to the table and picks up one of the little croissants on the tray, tears off a piece and holds it out in front of my mouth to feed me.
“You’re feeding me now?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve been eating.”
“Not enough. Come on, eat.”
He pushes the food to my lips, and I open my mouth, taking it. Like everything else I’ve eaten here it tastes great and reminds me of something my mother made.
I’m so worried about her, everything is reminding me of some aspect of her.
“I hear you write more than you eat.”
I groan inwardly wishing everything I do wasn’t reported to him. It makes me feel like a disruptive child you have to keep a close eye on.
“Maybe,” I decide to say.
“Any reason why Olivia Markov is writing content for Markov Tech’s website instead of writing her book?”
What an odd question coming from him.