I have to face Lord Augustus at the breakfast table in fifteen minutes.
To think I found our stilted breakfasts together uncomfortable when I first got here. Oh, how I wish I could go back in time and revel in that minor level of discomfort.
I’m a hundred percent confident that if all those awful encounters were rolled into a single, hideous encounter, they still wouldn’t begin to scratch the surface of the heinous social interaction that is sure to transpire this morning.
I dress, drink some water, and brush my teeth before limping to the dining room. I’m greeted by a visibly alarmed Sid, who takes one look at me and rushes out of the room, only to return a minute later with a bottle of paracetamol that he offers to me on a small silver tray.
I take two tablets and ask him to bring me the strongest coffee any human being has ever consumed. He gives me a curt nod and dashes off again, leaving me alone in the room.
I appreciate the solitude, though I’m not able to enjoy it fully because I know it’s likely to be short-lived. Anxiety punches each individual vertebra in my spine as I hear Lord Augustus approaching. His footsteps are brisk, but not as brisk as usual. There’s a lag between heel and toe placement that makes me think he’s also feeling the effects of last night.
Oh, how I regret everything, including being born.
Especially being born.
It’s a toss-up what embarrasses me more: the fact that the lord knows I fantasize about primal play on the regular, or that he knows exactly, precisely how I like to be fingered. Neither of those are things I usually tell people. The being-chased fantasy, especially, is a me-exclusive situation. I’ve never even dreamed of telling anyone about it. It’s for me to think about when I’m alone, not for others to know about. Admittedly, the prostate pummeling is something a few people know about, but only people who know me very well.
The worst thing is that, as bad as those issues are, they’re still not the worst things about today. The worst thing is that I actually had a good time with Lord Augustus last night. It was nice being out with him. It felt like there might be some common ground, a basis for friendship between us, and now that’s completely ruined.
I’m so embarrassed that my cheeks are glowing bright red by the time he enters the dining room. Obviously, he’s also going tobe embarrassed as hell, and his embarrassment will amplify my embarrassment. Between the two of us, we’re going to be such a complete mess that poor Sid will probably be embarrassed on our behalf as well. And maybe Mrs. Thompson will get in on the action. Between all of us, the delicate balance that’s taken months to achieve will be left in tatters.
Secondhand embarrassment is easily as bad as firsthand, maybe even worse, so realistically, I can’t see any way I’m likely to survive breakfast.
The dining room door silently swings open, and I flinch hard despite actively trying not to. I attempt to get my face under control, but I’m pretty sure the expression I’ve landed on looks more like a small, rabid dog that’s been offered a bowl of water rather than something anyone with a lick of sense would read as a smile.
Lord Augustus takes me in calmly. As he looks at me, my forehead, upper lip, and the crack of my ass all begin to perspire simultaneously.
“Bloody hell,” he says, squinting handsomely. “D’you think we left any champagne for anyone else?”
Oh. I see. He’s going with hangover humor. Good one. “I’m afraid not, Mr…”Shit. Shit, shit, shit. I’ve got myself in a muddle about what to call him now that we’re not role-playing a happy couple anymore. “My Lord.”
Tiny lines form near his mouth, dipping in gentle apostrophes on either side of his lips. “Mr. My Lord, huh? There’s a new one.”
There’s something very, very off about Lord Augustus right now. He’s being completely normal. It’s like he didn’t get the memo about being embarrassed by what happened between us last night. He looks hungover, no doubt about it. His eyes are puffy and a little more bleary than usual, and when he moves, he takes care not to move his head unnecessarily.
He’s making eye contact with me with no difficulty whatsoever though.
He takes his seat and raises his cup of tea to his lips, taking a grateful sip before placing the cup back on the saucer without looking down at it.
His eyes are on me, his expression matter of fact, bordering on serene. “Did you enjoy your run last night, little mouse?”
Oh fucking fuck.
Oh Jesus, take the wheel.
This man is talking about what happened. He’s discussing a base interaction we shared. Opening a dialogue about a personal matter. Of all the insane times for an alpha to decide to have above-average communication skills, he’s choosing to do itnow?
Fuck my fucking life.
“I, er,” I splutter, sounding more constipated than I can ever recall sounding in my life.
He hardly pauses, fixing me with a brilliant, personable smile. “And your orgasm? I trust it was to your satisfaction.”
To think I thought I was blushing before. I didn’t even know what blushing was. I’d read about it in books, but I’d never come close to experiencing what’s happening in the upper quadrant of my body now. My cheeks are glowing violently. My neck too. And I think my forehead might be in on the action.
His smile and gentle eye contact are unwavering.
Oh God.His question wasn’t redundant. He expects an answer.
