One consists of numbers which look like dates? Or they could be coordinates.
There’s also a star, the North Star by the looks of it, a compass, an anchor and chain. And a gray wolf.
With soulful eyes.
Which reminds me of him. James in a speedo is almost as awe-inspiring as James, the chef, in his element in the kitchen.
His powerful thighs propel him forward.
He’s also wearing a nose clip, and what I take to be a diver’s watch around his wrist. That’s it. No goggles or fins, or any other gear which, for some reason, I thought free divers would use.
He nods in my direction, then heads for the deep end, which is currently empty. He waits there, motionless, arms tucked at his sides. He’s so still, he could be a beautiful statue in a museum. His concentration is complete. Then, as if listening to an inner start signal, he dives into the pool.
There’s a flash of his legs, and he disappears under the surface.
I’m not a strong swimmer, so I head as close to the deep end as I dare, so I can watch without getting in the way. The water is clear enough for me to see his body arrow down, arms outstretched in front, legs together and narrow.
I’m wearing a waterproof watch, so I time him.
One second. Five. Ten.
The water is still, undisturbed except for the ripples from his entry.
Fifteen seconds. Twenty.
I swallow. Thirty seconds. Forty-five.
How long can he hold his breath?
A full minute passes.
Holy hell. My lungs start to burn in sympathy.
Then ninety seconds.
No way. He’s holding his breath that long?
That’s incredible.
The fact that he has such complete control over his breath sends a shiver through me. I press my thighs together.
Just like this morning, when I instinctively guided his fingers to my throat. When his grip tightened, something unfamiliar sparked inside me. Curiosity. Heat.
My fingers brush the faint bruising at my throat. A pulse of longing moves through me. My heartbeat quickens with the awareness of how dangerous the feeling is.
I now understand why his directives in the kitchen make me want to obey him. To please him. To earn his praise. Because I want to feel owned by him.
I want him to make me submit.
A thrill runs through me. My scalp tingles.
I want him to control me. Control my body. My emotions. My very breath.
I relish his concern, his tenderness when he realized he might have hurt me. I blossom under his attention. It makes me want to please him even more.
Having his complete focus on me is electrifying. I want more of it.
Across the pool, other swimmers pass over the spot where he went under, oblivious. But I can't look away. My hands grip the edge of the pool, knuckles white.
