"Out of there. Chop, chop." I clap my hand. "You’ve got a lot of work to do."
Turning, I head for the doorway leading back to the house.
"Wait," she calls out.
I reach the door, step inside.
"Does this mean you accept my proposition?"
"It means," I turn to glance at her, "you’d better get inside before I change my mind."
She stares back, spine straight, shoulders hitched back. She props a hand on her hip, breasts thrust up, nipples pebbled— Hell, if she isn’t as aroused as I am feeling. This is going to be interesting. I start to close the door. She springs into action, clambers over the side of the tub. "Wait," she screeches.
My lips twitch as I try to keep the smile off of my face. "You have one minute to get your arse in here," I drawl.
"Bastard," she huffs.
I yawn, "You’re getting repetitive, Buttercup."
"Aargh." She makes a sound deep in her throat, "I hate that ridiculous name."
"Prefer Blossom? Or Bubbles, maybe?"
"No," she scoffs, "all three of the Powerpuff girls are dumb."
"Hey," I lower my chin, "you did not just say that."
"Yes, I did." She grabs her blouse, pulls it on and it falls to mid-thigh.
My gaze, of course, goes there, to the curved flesh that jiggles as she moves. The women I’ve dated before have been emaciated, by comparison. None of them had that lustrous skin that I itch to mark, the delicate turn of ankles that invites me to run my tongue up the hollow, scooping the water droplets that are sure to be nestled there, up her calf and her inner leg, to that object of my obsession—her beautiful gorgeous core. Fuck.
"Just for that, your first punishment is watching the cartoon characters on loop."
"Punishment?" She grabs her boots and her socks; one of her shoes slips from her hold and hits the ground. "Crummy apple crumble," she swears,
"Did you use a dessert as a swear word?" I chuckle.
She rescues her footwear. "You could help, instead of ogling my body," she grumbles.
"Oh, if I were ogling, you’d know it, sweet thing."
She straightens, her cheeks rosier than they had been a few moments ago, "You’re a chauvinist."
"You’re a submissive."
She stiffens, "How dare you say that?"
"You want to be taken without being given a choice. Somewhere deep inside, you want to be dominated. At your core, you prefer to have all options taken from you, so you can relax into your true self."
She scoffs, "The hell you mean?"
"Right now, as we speak, you want me to bend you over the nearest chair, then part your legs, strum your clit, finger your pussy and make you come, right before I sink my hard, throbbing…aching…length into your melting center."
She draws in a breath, stares at me. Even through the darkness, her blue irises shine… The light in my darkness, the silvery fucking lining to my black cloud of a bloody life... And I am waxing poetic, all right, and all because this woman here has crawled under my skin. I want to grab her and pull her close and kiss her… Right after I turn her over my lap and spank all that impudence out of her. Speaking of... "Okay, I’m shutting the door." I let the barrier swing.
"W-a-i-t!" She scampers forward, then slips through the crack between the door and the frame. The door snicks shut. Silence, a beat, then another. This close, the scent of her—that vanilla and apples essence of her, laced with that sugary-tart sweetness that lingers on my tongue like a memory of that smell...when you go to the mall and you walk past the candy shop and smell the sugar? That smell intensifies. My mouth waters as my cock lengthens. I curl my fingers at my sides.
"Go on," I jerk my chin, temporarily capable of little more than monosyllabic words and spastic movements.
She scowls, "So you can stare at my arse?"
"If you’d rather ogle my butt instead…" I shrug, which has the added benefit of relieving some of the tension I’m feeling.
She snatches up her satchel, wears it across her chest, then bends to pick up her coat. Her toolkit jostles forward and smacks the back of her head. "Ow." She straightens, and her coat slips down to trail on the floor. "Shit," she swears aloud, "I am a mess."
"And I’d love to mess up my bed with you in it," I cough.
"What did you say?" she sputters as she scoops up her coat again.
"Just that you are pretty in your disarray."
She stares. "Somehow, I don’t believe you."
"Somehow, I don’t think I care."
"Is this some kind of NLP technique?" She frowns.
"No idea what you are talking about." I turn away.
"This entire mirroring my words thing you have happening."
"The only mirroring I want to do is of the 69 kind," I snicker.
"That’s it," she snarls, "I’ve changed my mind."
"Hmm."
"I thought we could find a way to get through the holiday season, but clearly, if I spend any time with you, it’s going to drive me insane."
"Goes both ways, sugar," I retort. The patter of paws on the wooden floor announces the arrival of Max. He jumps up, places his paws on my legs, as if he hasn’t seen me in years, instead of minutes ago when I’d fed him. "Hey Buddy, whatcha doin’, hmm?" I scratch at his head behind his ears and he makes a low, rumbling sound in his throat. He attempts to jump up again, but this time I oblige. I snatch him up, cuddle him, turn to watch her watching me.
I tilt my head, "What?"
"Every time I think you’re a horrible monster, Max saves the day."
"Should I be thankful?" I smirk, digging my fingertips into Max’s skin. He makes a deep groaning sound.
"Did he just…?" She blinks.
"Max is every bit as expressive as you," I snicker.
"Thanks." She tosses her head, "Doesn’t get you off the hook. I’m still leaving." She marches past me, snatches up her handbag from where she’d placed it on the bar counter.
She heads for the door, then pauses, to rifle around in her purse.
Wait for it.
Wait for it.
Wait for—
"You asshole." She turns on me.
"Alphahole." I correct her.
"You took my phone."
I lower Max to the floor and he darts off toward the kitchen. I follow him, shut the door that leads from the living room, then lean against it.
"You did, didn’t you?" she grumbles.
"If you mean that piece of shit technology that went out of date…"
"Hey, don’t insult Hedwig."
"Hedwig?"
“My phone, you idiot."
"Who gives a phone a name? Wait, you named your phone after the owl in Harry Potter?"
"Wow." She swallows, "You placed that?"
She stares at me, her gaze taking on that familiar googly-eyed look.
I hold my hands out in front of me. "Don’t go reading anything into it. And for the record, owl post wouldn’t work, in real life," I mutter.