“Oops. Someone made a mess.”
I slump in the chair, my eyes on the ceiling.
I jerk when I feel her hands and a warm, wet rag.
“Shhh. I’m just cleaning you up.”
I can’t speak. My voice fails me when I need it most.
She sets to work like this is normal. Like she’s done it a hundred times.
When she’s finished, she pats my shoulder. “After you eat, take a shower. Don’t worry about your sweatpants. I’ll wash them later.”
She leans down, brushes her lips over mine, and heads toward the door, grabbing her coat from the back of the couch as she goes.
She still has the rag she used to clean me up with.
“Are you going to wash that?”
She looks at me, then at the rag. For a moment, she stills.
“Uh huh.” Then she shoves it in her pocket, flutters her fingers at me, and says, “Enjoy your dinner. I’ll clean up in the morning.”
She’s gone before I can utter a word.
Her boots hit the ground. The silence that follows her departure is deafening.
My eyes go back to the ceiling. I snort, shaking my head.
My stalker gave me a hand job through my pants, cleaned me up, and left with the used rag.
I’m fairly certain that’s not covered in the audiobook on boundaries.
She’s either going to do some bonding spell that will prevent me from ever getting away or shove the sperm-soaked cloth inside her, hoping to get pregnant.
My smile fades.
That won’t work, right?
I’m nearly positive it won’t.
But just in case, I’d better Google it.
I arrive homefrom work the next day, determined to put an end to this madness with Ivy.
I unlock the door and follow the smell of food to the kitchen.
She’s wearing an apron—and those damn leggings.
This time, her pink hoodie is unzipped, showing some cleavage.
Be strong.
Boundaries, remember?
“We need to talk.”
She gives me a bright smile. “Welcome home.” She approaches, long hair curled away from her face, cheeks pink, eyes sparkling.
