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“Truths, remember?” I remind her, pushing a strand of her fiery hair that escaped the bun on top behind her ear.
“This one won’t help you.” I see it the second she shuts me off. The second, whatever it is that she’s hiding, is a lot bigger and heavier than I could have imagined. “But just know, it wasn’t about you. You are perfectly perfect. Not a deviant.”
She shakes her head as I gape at her. Perfectly perfect. That’s what she called me…
Fuck there is no leaving this woman.
There is not a chance in hell I could walk away, yet I know there is also no chance of her letting me in.
“God, who put that stupid thought into your head? They obviously haven’t seen real monsters in this life.” Kira steps out of my hold.
“And you have?” I probe some more, fishing for whatever information this walking vault of a woman is hiding.
“Yes. Now, is that enough truth for you? Can we get back to finally fucking?”
I chuckle and shake my head. Only my girl could say it so clinically, so undetached, and turn me on with that.
“Yeah.” I lick my lips. “I think we can.”
I walk over to the chair by her desk and sit down on it, spreading my legs wide as I get comfortable. Kira watches me with one eyebrow lifted, hands crossed at her chest.
She told me I could have whatever she had left. She gave me the green light to play, and I will fucking play, leaving all the rest of the difficult conversations and big life decisions for another day.
“Now, strip.”
Chapter twenty-six
Kira
Song: EMO – Promises
“Now, strip,” Vassar—excuse me, I mean Vas—commands me with confidence and searing heat as his gaze roams over my still-clothed body. And in cooking uniform, nonetheless. “Take it all off and come here.”
There is not a trace of the closed-off Sous-chef I used to torment every day at work. No, there is only a best, sitting like a king with his legs stretched wide on his fucking throne and waiting for me to come to serve his majesty.
God, who is this man, and how much will it hurt when he sees through all of my issues that have been slowly slipping through the cracks and leaves me like the garbage I am. Yeah, I am a bouquet full of insecurities. Surprise, surprise. But you didn’t seriously think that I was as confident as I was making everyone think, right?
Yes, I am very much comfortable in my “I don’t give a shit” body. Because I really don’t. I don’t feel sad over hurting someone’s feelings. I don’t feel embarrassed when I say something the general public deems wrong. I know how to bury my insecurities, how to kick them away from myself, and for themost part, I live in a happy bliss of ignorance, but they are there. They’ve been embedded in me from the moment I took my first breath.
And when I am around this man, all those old secrets I’ve hidden come surging back up. It’s as if he unlocks a secret passage to the blood-pumping muscles. Reminding it what it’s really there for.
It’s as if he’s making me breathe a new type of air. He is that air.
When Vassar looks at me, I don’t want to think about all the crap from my past or the ocean that keeps calling out to me.
I want to pretend it’s only me and him in this world. I only want to take off my clothes and be his.
So, I do just that. I slip my fingers into the buttons of my chef’s jacket, pulling each one open slowly. I slip it off, throwing it to the floor. I take off my jeans next and the tank top I had underneath the jacket and left standing in my black Agent Provocateur lingerie set.
It’s one of those see-through pieces that hides absolutely nothing. One of those that you wear for the sole purpose of feeling amazing about yourself and leaving it on someone’s floor. And based on the hungry, desperate look in Vassar’s eyes, he’d very much like it to be his floor.
His tongue darts out to his bottom lip, licking it slowly while his eyes don’t waver away from mine even for a second. They only grow in intensity, sending silent shivers up my spine and to the roots of my hair. My body is buzzing with anticipation for what’s finally coming, with the need to feel every second of it.
How could this man think I don’t want to be touched by him, manhandled by him, have my ass spanked by him…is a mystery to me. My lock-up was not about him, and generally, I’ve never cared to correct anyone else, but he needed to know it. My half-truth—or rather one-eighth of it.
I watch as his confidence grows right in front of my eyes the more he stares at my nearly naked and pleading for him, body. I see his heaving chest, the hooded gaze, the slight flare of his nostrils.
He spreads his legs further apart, sitting even deeper into the chair, feeling fully in control when he says, “Now get on your hands and knees for me.”
