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“Um, yes. Yes, it did. And now I’m very much lamenting the fact that I’m still as tired as a dog because I’d really like to hump your leg right now. Which, okay, that doesn’t make a whole lot of sense. But you know what I mean.”
Teddy leans back and crosses his arms, although his expression is soft. “You sound better.”
“I feel better.”
Recuperating at home with Teddy probably had a big something to do with that.
Teddy twists his lips a little. It doesn’t look like a happy twist.
“What is it?” I ask.
“I’m supposed to head into the studio this afternoon. Would you be okay if I left?”
“Oh,” I say, not surprised exactly because it is still the work week, and of course Teddy would be scheduled for filming. I’d just gotten so used to having him around while I played legitimate hooky, and the idea of him leaving now bums me out.
But I’m an adult. I don’t actually need a keeper.
“It’s fine,” I say quickly. “I’ll be okay.”
“Hm,” is all he says.
“What hm?”
“Would you want to come with me?”
I perk up immediately. “Come with you to the studio? Where the porn is made?”
There go those twitching lips again. “Mhm.”
“Could I watch?”
“Would you want to?” he asks, sounding genuinely curious.
“Um. Yes. Obviously. Holy fucking fuckballs, can I seriously? Would that be allowed?”
He smiles for real this time, his cheeks dimpling at the sides. “Should be fine. I’ll check with Jerome, but as long as you don’t interrupt filming, I don’t see why not.”
“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.” I fling myself off the couch, nearly tripping over my blanket in the process. “Best day ever. Bring Kipp To Work day. Yeah, okay. What do I wear? Leather?”
“How about your normal clothes?” Teddy counters.
“Really?” I ask, frowning. “Not, like, normal leather clothes?”
“What leather clothing do you own that would be considered casual wear?”
I ponder that. “The thong?”
Teddy stares at me for a long time. “You own a leather thong?”
“Yeah, the black one with the little bow in front?”
He spins around, walking down the hall. “Tu vas être ma mort, chéri.”
“What?” I ask, following after him. “I heard chéri. That’s sweetheart, right?”
He doesn’t stop until he’s in front of his dresser. He opens one drawer, and not finding what he’s searching for, he opens another. When he rifles through my underwear selection, locating the piece in question, he hangs his head for the briefest of moments. His eyes, when he turns my way, are lit like fire.
“Are you really feeling okay?” he asks, pushing off from the dresser and stepping close, the thong between his fingertips.
