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He narrows his eyes. “I’m not sleeping on the fucking lounge, Tully.”
“Okay.” I smile. It really is fun being a bitch to him. This could be my new hobby. “I’m going to bed. Lock up when you leave.”
“What?” He laughs without humour. “You’re not fucking going to bed.”
I climb into bed and turn the light off.
“As the operation’s manager, I have not signed you off your shift yet. You still have work to do. Hours and hours of hard labour.”
I smile into my pillow at him playing along with me.
“You don’t have any managerial powers today. Time out overrules any operation management. Get on the sofa.”
“You’re fucking unbelievable,“ he mutters under his breath as he walks back into the living room.
I smile into my pillow again.
“Never once, in my entire life, have I been told to sleep on the lounge,” he mutters in disgust. I can hear him pacing back and forth as he decides what to do. “I’m going home.”
“That’s a pity,” I call. “I’ll miss you at breakfast. I wanted to go to the beach, too.”
“The carrot your dangling isn’t that tempting. I can get eggs and sunshine anywhere,” he calls, but I can tell he’s spreading out the blankets on the lounge.
“Okay.” I smile. “I might need my sunscreen rubbed in, that’s all, but it’s okay. I’ll get someone else to do it.”
“Fuck, Tully!” he snaps. “I swear to God, you are pissing me off big time. Stop threatening me.”
I giggle into my pillow. Big dope.
“Good night, Captain Cranky Pants,” I call.
There’s silence for a while. I hear the lock on the front door click and then the creak of the lounge as he lies down. I smile again. Did I just win that fight?
“Goodnight, wench.” He finally tuts.
I giggle and pull my blankets up to snuggle in.
I hear him groan. “This lounge is harder than the fucking floor.”
“Sleep on the floor then,” I call back. “I’m glad it will be softer for you.” I giggle as I imagine him on the cold, hard floor. “I like how you’re thinking outside the box with your problem solving.” I put my hand over my mouth to stop myself from laughing out loud. “Keep this up and you might be in for a promotion.”
“Fuck off,” he mutters into his pillow, and I hear him punch it three times.
I smile broadly and close my eyes.
Disciplining Brock Marx could be fun.
I wake to the sunshine streaming through my bedroom windows. I must have forgotten to close my drapes last night. I inhale deeply, roll over, and I begin to doze back off.
Hang on. My eyes snap open. Is Brock here?
I sit up in a rush and listen. I can’t hear anything.
I quietly climb out of bed and sneak into the living room. My eyes widen at the sight in front of me.
Holy mother of fuck.
Brock is lying on his back wearing only his little black boxer briefs. His blankets are thrown on the floor along with his clothes. One hand is up behind his head, the other down his pants as he holds his dick. His legs are spread wide and he is sleeping like a baby. My eyes roam over the perfect specimen. What the hell? I didn’t know men who looked like this actually existed.
He’s huge, buff, and looks like some kind of stripper that you would pay anything to see. His stomach is a mass of ripples, and he has a scattering of dark hair on his chest as well as a small trail that runs from his navel, disappearing into his briefs. His dark eyelashes flutter, and his big pouty lips make me want to bend down and kiss them.
I watch him for a moment, how do I handle this?
The horn bag in me wants to straddle him and ride him ‘til dusk. The prude in me wants to sit down and talk sensibly with him about his appalling behaviour.
The bitch in me wants to fight him.
But it’s all of me who wants to spend time with him today. Like a puzzle I need to complete, I just want to know what makes him tick.
As I watch him, my mind goes to Simon. I frown to myself, wondering what he’s doing now and who he’s doing it with.
I used to always think we were soul mates, but maybe we were just young and naïve. It makes me sad to think that we may have lost what we had. He’s due back in a couple of months, and the last time I spoke to him he said he was moving in with me. To be honest, I don’t even know what I want anymore. I don’t think he does, either. But we have to try; we said we would.
Is it fair to Brock to start something when I know it already has an expiry date?
