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I think it’s time for me to make my presence known.
I haven’t yet.
Because as soon as I entered, I found him at the bag and I froze.
But I don’t have to. He lifts his eyes on his own, landing them directly on me.
And in them, I see every single thing that happened last night.
I see every single thing that he did and made me feel flashing like glorious diamonds and stars and my skin wakes up with goosebumps.
“Hi,” I whisper breathily.
His response is to straighten up and begin to unravel the tape from around his hand.
“I was… I just came in and you were…”
“I know.”
“Y-you knew I was standing here?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh.” I swallow under his heavy, intense, possessive gaze. “Did I, uh, interrupt you? I —”
He shakes his head slowly. “I finished about twenty minutes ago.”
I lick my lips. “Oh. But then… you were still going.”
Again, he chooses to respond with silence. With actions.
Now finished with his tapes, he lets them fall to the ground and begins walking toward me.
Prowling toward me.
His thighs bulging under his workout pants, his chest heaving under his sweaty t-shirt.
And every step that he takes toward me somehow echoes in my belly. It echoes in my chest and beats like a drum.
So loud and so vibrating that I press my back against the door.
When he reaches me, he places his hand on the door above my head and leans in. “Because I knew you wanted to watch.”
It takes me a second or two to realize what he’s saying.
What he’s referring to.
Do you think I could watch your punching thingy?
Something I said to him last night before I got distracted with other things, and forgot about it. He didn’t, however.
He remembered and he delivered.
Like so many other things. Small and big. Crazy and whimsical.
Just because I wanted them.
Just because he can’t say no to me.
Breathless, I crane up my neck and whisper, “So that was for me.”
“Yeah.”
Clenching my thighs, I whisper again, “Thank you.”
His eyes flash as he leans further down. “Are you going to thank me every time I do something for you?”
I nod. “Yes.”
“Because you’re such a good girl.”
“No.”
“And you have excellent manners.”
“No.” I swallow. “Because it’s you. Because you’re amazing and because no one has ever done things for me. Not like this.”
He studies my features, my eyes and glasses, my bangs. “Well then, it’s about time someone did, isn’t it?”
“Pampering,” I blurt out.
He frowns, bringing his eyes back to mine. “What?”
“It’s called pampering,” I tell him like he doesn’t know, like it’s a bad thing. “What you’re doing.”
“What am I doing?”
“Fulfilling my every wish.” Then, on a whisper, “It’s called pampering.”
His lips twitch. “Is it?”
“Yes.” I inch up my glasses. “It makes me feel special.”
“Yeah?”
“And spoiled.”
“And?”
“And happy.”
“What else?”
My belly hollows out on a breath. “It makes me feel like I’m your baby.”
He leans even further down. “Good. Because you are, aren’t you?”
“I am.” Then, with wide eyes, “Alaric?”
I think he knows what I want. I want him to touch me. I want him to kiss me and oh God, fuck me.
Let’s please fuck again.
It’s obvious, by the way his eyes flash and his nostrils flare, that he knows.
But he ignores me.
Tipping his jaw down, he asks, “That for me?”
I want to bring him back to the topic at hand but then I remember that I have something for him.
A piece of cherry pie.
I look down at the dish I’m holding. “Oh yes. Mo said you haven’t eaten yet and like, you’ve been working all day and then you came here for a workout. So I got you this. Because it’s your favorite and I thought it might entice you. But Alaric,” I add, looking up and going serious, “I think we need to talk about it.”
We so do.
I don’t think I like how he works so much. How he neglects everything else in favor of it.
This is same as his anger issues, his punching thingy.
He isn’t serious though, I don’t think.
Because there’s an amused glint in his eyes and his lips are still twitching.
But before I can take offense to that, he grabs the plate from me and sets it down on a bench type thingy right next to the door. “What are you doing? I —”
Then he comes for me.
Putting his hands on my waist, he picks me up and my breath whooshes out again, my legs leaving the ground in a split second and my thighs hooking around his waist. Settling my hands on his shoulders, I go again, “What are you doing?”
He begins to walk. “Carrying you.”
I wind my limbs around him tighter and curl his sweat-dampened hair. “Where?”
Reaching an oversized leather armchair on the far side of this big, industrial space, he sits down and settles me in his lap. “To this chair.”
My knees hit the leather and my ass squiggles on his hard thighs. “Why?”
