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JORDAN
I wakeup in Ivy’s bed, and I know I’ve overslept before I catch a glimpse of my watch.
Ivy’s light snores from my side amaze me. She’s the only person, except for my ex-wife, I’ve eversleptin one room with. Sharing a bed with Ivy is an easy task. I feel her movements throughout the night. She’s quite active in her sleep, climbing on top of me, resting her leg on my groin. She uses my upper arm as a pillow, then my chest. She can’t get enough of me in her sleep, and I’m here for it.
In fascination, I observe her while she sleeps. We took a shower together last night, and parts of her jet-black hair are still wet.
The cold facts are simple with Ivy. Where it gets tricky is her thoughts. Why does she do the things she does?
To say that last night took me by surprise is an understatement.
The situation with her mom did a number on her. The facts are there, but I don’t understand why it’s Ivy’s fault.
“Can I get a coffee?” Ivy mumbles. She stretches her delicate arms, almost poking me with her left arm. The oversized shirt she wears lifts, revealing her cheeks to me. She sports bruises from last night. I see my fingerprints on her creamy skin, and, for the first time, I’m unsure if I’m proud or disgusted with myself.
“You want me to make you one?” I’ve never done that. How hard can a cup of coffee be? I’ve done gastrectomy before, the amateur version.
“No!” she yelps. “I’m asking if I can have one. You’re supposed to say yes or no since you’re my owner!”
My little doe woke up feisty today. “In that case, go ahead. It might fix your mood.”
Ivy brushes the hair on her face aside, revealing the most delightful pout on her face. She shakes her head as she rises from the bed.
“Good morning, little doe.”
“Good morning, Mr. Winters.” She winks at me before leaving her bedroom.
It’s like in this home, I don’t have a life of responsibilities. I could stay in her bed all day, analyzing the paintings on her walls. Smolyakov is the main focus of most of them, but I don’t give a shit. It’s her art. I’m trained in the art of facts. If I want to find a way into her thoughts, I must detect the details.
It’s eight, and I can’t stay in this bed forever. She’s in her kitchen. I can hear her from afar. As much as it smells and feels like her, out there, I’ve got the real Ivy. I don’t have to rely on eyes anymore.
Now, I can touch my Ivy’s flesh.
I put on last night’s clothes, dreading the fact that I must return to the palace in them. My men will sniff the sex on me, and I’ll have to pretend like I’m not going crazy over the finest piece of pussy I’ve ever called mine.
Ivy doesn’t hear me coming. She’s gazing out of her window with her cup of coffee in hand. I study her from the doorway.
“I want you to meet my family,” I tell her, and she twitches wickedly, spilling some of her coffee on the kitchen counter and on her shirt.
“But I’ve already met them. I know your entire family,” Ivy says. She’s bend over the counter, cleaning it up with one of the rags. She’s miffed by the spilled coffee. She makes me hard by doing whatever she does to that counter. She’s meticulous about the act of cleaning, and I admire her slick fingers going to work. In my family, we’re a bunch of neat geeks.
“You haven’t been introduced to them as my girlfriend. Or object. But I think the real Katantians only count you as an object if I marry—”
“Do you mean that?” she asks, dropping the rag she cleaned the coffee with. “You want me to meet the Wraiths? As your girlfriend?”
I nod.
“Fuck.”
“Hey,” I warn her.
“I’m sorry.” Her face goes red, and she grabs the coffee cup, downing the remains of its content. “I’d love to. It’ll be weird as fuck. Why am I cursing so much. Fuck.”
I lean against the doorframe, taking in her awkwardness. She could be my open book. I only need one glimpse into her thoughts… “Dial it down in front of Fylox, and we’re good. You know how he is.”
“Of course, I do!” she exclaims. Horror paints her face. “What will he think!”
“That you’re owned and not to be fucked with. What else?”
