I need to get out of this bed.
Carefully, I pull myself out of his arms. I put on a comfortable nightie and a pair of slippers. I exit the bedroom and Spud is already by the door. Spud cranes to look around my legs, trying to see Phantom. I close the door behind me, put on a long jacket to cover myself up, and take Spud out for his morning walk. When I get back, I make coffee. My stomach pinches and I realize I’m hungry. Famished, actually. It’s likeallof me is waking up from hibernation.
I clatter pots and pans around. Now, I’m purposefully being loud. Still, nothing from Phantom.
He might be dead.
Feeling energized, I actually put in some effort this morning. I get out the cutting board, chop up some pitted Kalamata olives and cherry tomatoes. I break out spinach, feta cheese, and eggs. I whisk up the eggs, heat up the pan, and pour them in. Everything starts sizzling and popping.
I don’t know if it’s the smell of food or the sounds, but finally, Phantom emerges from my bedroom. He’s wearing nothing but grey briefs, his hair askew. He rubs his hand distractedly over his arm, and I can’t help but admire the thick, freckled bicep underneath.
My cunt clenches, reminding me of all the things wedidn’tdo last night.
“How long was I asleep?”
“Twenty years.” I wave my spatula. “They have flying cars now.”
He goes into my coat closet. I hear him unzip his black bag. He pulls out a couple items then vanishes into my bathroom. When he comes back out, he’s looking fresher, brighter, and he’s wearing sweatpants and a dark shirt.
I hear him rummaging around his bag some more, and the hiss of the zipper. I poke at the pan. He comes up behind me. Even without touching me, I canfeelhis presence.
“Coffee?” I offer.
“No, thank you.” He hovers over my shoulder. “Smells good.”
“Hungry?”
“Starving.”
I’m not the only one feeling resurrected this morning. The warmth of his body draws me like a moth to the flame and I find myself tilting back, just a little, just to feel his strong chest against my back.
“May I pull your hair back?” he asks.
“Yes, please.”
Those large hands gently capture my hair. The roots tug pleasantly at my scalp as he ties it back with a simple band.
“Now your arms,” he says.
“My arms?”
“Hands behind your back, Ophelia.”
I set my spatula aside and, curious, I follow orders. A soft ribbon, satin-like, curls around my wrists. He tightens it, securing them in place. I test the binds. It’s a gentle tie, but I’m not getting out anytime soon. The helpless feeling sends a thrill through me, and my heart skips.
I can’t help but grin. “How am I supposed to cook?”
His body presses against mine. His arms wind around me and he picks up the spatula.
“Tell me what to do.”
“Stir, please.”
I talk him through cooking breakfast. Phantom’s arms become my arms, and he follows orders easily. He flips it onto the plate and it’s a perfect, beautiful frittata. He fixes one plate and snags one fork for us to share. Then he takes a spot at the table, looks me directly in the eyes, and pats his thigh.
“Come here.”
It’s the soft, every-day dominant gestures that send a bolt of electricity through me. I obey easily. Yes, we’re on a break, yes, I’m still mad at him, but fuck—let me have this. Let me be his early morning good girl. Let me steal some serotonin for a couple of hours so I can make it through the rest of my week.
