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I playfully tell him to piss off, pushing his mouth to the side. One more kiss and I'm not sure I'll be able to stop.
Taking my hands, he helps me to my feet. “You all right?” he asks with genuine concern, giving me the once over, his eyes sweeping up and down my body. “Does your back still hurt?”
“No.” I roll my shoulders, trying to iron out the tension in me. “I'm fine.”
“Here,” he says, circling with a single finger, “turn around.”
“Why?” I can feel my heart hammering in my chest. “What are you going to do?”
The way he smiles at me...
“Turn around,” he still circling his finger; flicks up his eyebrows, “you'll be glad you did.”
A bit wary, I do, and just to really fuck with me, he puts his large hands on my shoulders. He massages me there with gentle fingers, getting into knots and kinks that I didn't even know existed. It feels so good that I sigh and let my head fall back. I can't resist closing my eyes for a moment either, imagining that he's doing this to me while I'm naked and withered after an orgasm.
“Feels good,” Charlie whispers in my ear from over my shoulder, “doesn't it?”
I'm living in my own sexually repressed hell and it feels like things are just getting started.
19
Over the coming weeks, I adjust to living with Charlie.
After the way he dropped me in the gym the other day, he's a little delicate with me when we spar now, but it's all right. I don't want to get too physical with him anyway. I'm trying to control my hormones and given they don't regulate until at least ten o'clock in the morning, his guilt for 'hurting me' has worked in my favor.
I also don't hide away in my room during the day anymore, reading the books he brought me. I come down for lunch as well as breakfast and dinner, though we never eat breakfast or lunch together—I always get up too late to share breakfast with him and he's always 'working' at lunchtime.
Today however, he isn't working, so I'm indulging myself in his company, making us both a sandwich before he disappears again. We eat standing in the kitchen space, Charlie leaning against the countertop next to me, topless. I'm not sure if he owns a bloody top anymore.
“You know you've been down for lunch every day this week?” he says, flicking crumbs off his chest.
“Yeah, so?” I have a sip of orange juice but it barely quenches my thirst. “Is that all right?”
“Course it is,” he says softly. “You can do whatever you want here, Blaire.” He reaches for my glass so I give it to him, and he finishes off every last drop of orange juice. I watch the Adams apple in his throat bob up and down, captivated—everything he does captivates me.
“Why have you only just started coming down in the daytime?” he says, leaning past me to put the empty glass in the sink. “You've been here for over a month now.”
“Maybe because I didn't like you before,” the words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. “Not that... you know... I don't mean...” I blink at him, internally cringing.
Why did I just say that?
“So...” he says amused, licking his lips, “you like me now?”
I exhale under my breath. He isn't offended.
“Hm?” he hums, flicking up his eyebrows for an answer. “Yes? No? Maybe?” His eyes thin. “Maybe a little?”
“You're all right, I suppose.” I shrug, and trying not to laugh at him, I bite a chunk out of my sandwich. He is all right. Nothing like I thought he'd be.
He laughs at me, his eyes glittering, trapping me in his spell—I could stare at his wicked blue eyes all day long.
“Well, that's better than you hating me, I guess,” he says, having another deep bite of his sandwich.
“Why don't you have a girlfriend?” I blurt out. I'm not ashamed to ask. I've been wondering for weeks now, wondering that if he does have a girlfriend, who she might be; what she looks like.
He coughs, almost spitting out his sandwich.
“I mean, you probably have got a girlfriend. I just assumed...” I put down the last of my sandwich and hide my hands in the sleeves of my sweater, looking up at him innocently. “Sorry. I'm not prying. I just wondered, is all.”
