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There's a massive clawfoot tub on the other side of the dual sinks I'm leaning against that sits just before another large floor-to-ceiling window, seemingly tinted in the private space. A space that easily costs a couple million. A space I'd never in my life imagine casually bathing in on a random Wednesday.
The idea that some people get to live their lives in places like this, enjoying the perks of filling up a bath this big every day and not having to worry about how large the water bill will be at the end of the month, aggravates me.
I deserve a fucking bath. I deserve to eat cheesecake and not worry about finances while I casually read my book porn in a tub more than any other woman he's probably brought here and told to make themselves at home.
Again—shouldn't have told me that.
I’m a little angry now, feeling owed of the pleasure I’ve constantly pushed away for selfless reasons. It’s spiteful tranquility, and well-deserved, if I have anything to say about it.
With determination, I walk towards the bath, stripping myself of my clothing and tossing them into the corner of the room. It filled up faster than I thought it would, the bubbles I'd found smelling of a rich and hearty vanilla.
This man has a slew of what looks like expensive handmade soaps sitting near the counter like a goddamn hotel. Soaps of all kinds; face cleansing soaps, body wash soaps, exfoliating soaps, herbal soaps, glycerine soaps, liquid soaps, a soap with a fucking flower inside of it. A real flower.
This man has a soap fetish. That's his kink. Cleanliness.
I grab three different soaps, placing them on the little wooden stand near the bath, deciding to run a test study on myself as I reach for the pie tin on the counter. Placing my book by the large golden clawfoot, I slowly sink into the soapy heat of the water beneath me.
A relaxing sigh escapes me as I adjust to the temperature, finally sitting back comfortably and letting my muscles relax into it. I shove another full bite of this delicious cheesecake into my mouth and moan around the fork. It's so disgustingly good, made with ingredients clearly above my pay grade. Things that don't include preservatives or trans fats.
I have no clue how long Lake will be gone, but I would imagine photoshoots followed up by interviews take some time. It's only been a half hour since he left. I've got time. After finishing the majority of the cheesecake, I drop the rest of the tin, making a pained face at the destruction.
“I have no self-control.” I frown, then grab my book I conveniently set nearby.
Easing myself deeper into the warm water, I lean my neck against the smooth porcelain, letting the remaining bubbles embrace me, sliding up and around my shoulders.
Falling completely into my reread of Break Me on Bearback, I flip another page, eagerly getting into this spicy little scene that's building. With my nose in the book and my body beneath bubbles, I hear the front door open with a beep and a click.
It almost seems unreal. A beep and a click. So quiet while screaming wealth. Just like a rich man's condo to be technologically savvy. The closest thing you get to a beep and a click at my place is a buzz and a clunk.
Hearing the sad wailing buzz of the dying intercom system to alert a neighbor your key isn’t working in the main door again, before you attempt to open the old wooden door to your apartment that's swollen in size, forcing you to throw your body into the door with a clunk. Buzz and a clunk.
My eyes bulge at the book still in my hands as I hear the footsteps of a confident man approaching from down the hall. Chucking it behind me in the corner, the book's pages ruffle as it flaps like an idiot chicken attempting to fly. I slide beneath the remaining bubbles again, covering myself from the neck down to ensure my private parts are hidden. As if he's never seen them.
Peering up from the suds before me, my breath gets lodged in my throat as I see Lake leaning against the door frame, looking sexier than ever in a tight-fitting white button-up shirt and black slacks that fit those muscular thighs better than if they were painted on. He looks like he just stepped off a magazine page. His hair, tousled to perfection, is slightly slicked back with product, a few pieces hanging free across his forehead.
He arches a thick brow as he takes in the scene before him.
“Enjoying yourself?” he asks huskily.
I swallow, running a hand over my hair and slicking it back over my shoulder.
“I made myself at home,” I squeak out, looking around nervously at the bubbles, then peering down at the pie tin beneath the bath with only a slice left.
His eyes follow mine and he tips his head, peering intently at the near-empty tin.
Oh God, what if his mom made him that cheesecake? It’s his favorite homemade cheesecake, and I just stuffed my fucking face with it like the homeless chick he once thought I was.
He waits for me to explain myself, but there is no explanation. I'm ashamed. It appears as if I was playing housewife and it's probably making him uncomfortable, considering most women more than likely want to sleep with him for his money and fame. He knows I'm broke from years of credit card debt, student loans, and legal fees. Surely he doesn't think I'm trying to come up off of him.
“I wasn't playing rich housewife, if that's what you're thinking,” I begin, suddenly feeling nervous under his direct gaze. He pushes off the door and places his hands in his pockets as he slowly moves towards me. “I've just never seen a tub so big and thought, how fun would it be to soak in while reading and shoveling cheesecake down my throat.” I chuckle nervously before my fake smile drops. “Ya know?”
No. No, he doesn't know. I sound crazy. I'm dying internally from embarrassment as my wild eyes dart all around the room, looking for a quick escape. I should run.
His brows knit together as he scowls, looking around the tub again.
“Where is it?” he asks sternly, and I get the feeling he's mad.
“In...my stomach,” I answer with a weak voice, cautiously.
