Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
A ubrey
Monday morning, I show up at Billy’s in an outfit that I deem sexy-functional for both painting and male torture.
I’m in a pair of purple overalls with a white string bikini top underneath that looks great against my dark skin.
My hair is pulled up on the top of my head, giving him a view of my long neck.
I took the time to refresh my lip gloss in the elevator on the way up.
Yesterday, I went crazy with Billy’s gold card, just to fuck with him.
I was hoping he’d receive notifications because I made five separate purchases.
I can’t tell if he knows yet–I didn’t get any protests, even after I bought and paid for delivery of everything new–drop cloths, paint brushes, and trays, a can of literally every color of paint, even though I’m starting with the black and white mural–ha!
None of it was needed. He already has my drop cloths and paint supplies.
All I really needed was a can of black paint and a can of white. Maybe some grays with warm undertones.
I try the knob without knocking and, like before, find it’s open.
I pop my earbuds out. “Honey, I’m home!” It was a dumb joke the first time, and it’s even dumber now, but my goal is to drive Billy nuts.
He’s moved the furniture away from the wall I’m supposed to paint, and all the stuff I ordered is neatly stacked beside it. A stepladder leans against the wall. He even removed the sconce light fixture that I was planning on painting around. Or did he hire a handyman to do it?
I spot him sitting at the breakfast bar in the kitchen, sipping from a one-shot espresso cup while he works on his laptop. The cup looks miniscule in his large hands.
Damn, he has hot hands for a Wall Street billionaire.
They’re not manicured and pale; they’re large, and they look strong.
I’ve never thought about a man’s hands before, but something about Billy’s makes me wonder how they’d feel on my body.
I remember how strong he was when he picked me up by the waist. Those fingers could close around my throat and probably choke the life out of me.
I imagine the feel of his huge hand spanking my ass.
He barely spares me a glance.
Like last time, he’s setting the tone. The message is that we’re not friends. I work for him. Under him.
Oops. I shouldn’t have had that thought, especially not after perving on his ham-hands. My nipples tighten under the bikini top. Moisture gathers between my legs.
His nostrils flare, and his head jerks up from his screen. He’s suddenly up and moving toward me before I can plan my attack.
My strategy against his attempts to put me in my place is to keep playing it over-familiar. To spread my stuff everywhere. Take over the energy of his space.
Drive him out.
Except that thought doesn’t land right. I don’t actually want to make him crazy enough to leave. I rather enjoy the idea of him being here where I can torture him.
I rather enjoy the idea of being near him all day.
Maybe I should scratch this itch with him.
He arrives in front of me, and some of my breath leaks away.
He stands too close. His position is too dominant.
The way he looks down with that glower makes me lift my head and stare defiantly back.
I wait for some reprimand about how much I’ve spent, but instead he asks gruffly, “What do you need?”
Your hand in my hair.
A hard fuck against the wall.
Whoops. I’m losing focus. Time to put him in his place.
I pop my earbuds back in my ears. My 80’s Monday playlist is still rolling. “Nothing from you,” I say airily and ignore him, spreading the dropcloth.
I feel the laser focus of his stare on my ass as I bend over and pull the cloth long.
He doesn’t offer to help.
I just have to ask. “Did you remove the light fixture yourself?”
He frowns. “Of course.”
“Wow.”
He lifts his brows. “You find that impressive?”
“Well, you don’t strike me as the handyman type.”
He gives a faint shrug. “My father was the definition of toxic masculinity,” he says. “There is no man-job I wasn’t forced to learn by the time I was twelve. Removing a sconce took me thirty seconds.”
Hmm. I find that surprising. I assumed he was spoon-fed with silver and never forced to do a moment of manual labor. I file this new tidbit about him away to chew on later.
I keep working while he looks until he finally has had enough of being ignored and walks away, down the hall to what I presume is his bedroom.
Don’t think about his bed. Or what it would be like to be tied to it.
I wonder if he’s kinky like that. He’s beyond dominant–he’s domineering. But, as Madi and I conjectured, it could mean it’s all about him. To tie me to the bed would be more about me.
Oh God. I need to stop this train of thought because I am getting more turned on by the minute.
I pull out a measuring tape and measure the wall, then set the ladder up against it, and make a light grid line of pencil marks.
This is the first thing I learned when I started painting murals.
It’s hard to get the full perspective on your work when you’re working up close but creating something large-scale to be viewed at a distance.
If you divide your initial sketch into grids, then make the same number of grids on the wall, you can easily blow up your vision.
It’s like creating pixels in digital images.
Once I have my grid lines set up, I take out my charcoal pencil and start sketching the outline of the largest flower on the wall.
The Boomtown Rats song “I don’t like Mondays” plays in my ears, and I hum absently as I fall into the groove.
As the flower takes form, I get lost in the work, forgetting where I am. Forgetting I’m not alone. I don’t realize I’m singing out loud until I hear what sounds like a groan from the bedroom.
Billy
She’s singing.
Fucking singing.
And fuck me, she has the voice of a damn angel.
Except rather than lifting me, rather than transporting me, the beauty of her voice produces a ferocious wave of lust.
Add to that, the fact that she’s wearing the exact white string bikini I pictured her in when I was imagining her on the beaches of Monaco, and my pants are way too tight at the crotch.
My canines sink into my lower lip as I stifle a groan.
I shouldn’t have stayed home today. Her nutmeg scent filters everywhere in my penthouse–and more than that–I swear I caught the scent of her arousal when she arrived.
I walk into the en suite bathroom and turn on the faucet to cover any more groans. I can’t take it. Either I blow off some steam, or I’m going to do something inadvisable to that human.
Something that involves slicing those overalls to shreds and pulling her miniscule bikini triangles to the sides to get at those luscious breasts.
I unzip my trousers and shove my hand into my boxer briefs to grip the base of my cock.
She got aroused the moment she walked into my penthouse. I had planned to ignore her, and then I caught the scent, and my wolf nearly pounced.
I squeeze my dick tight and slide my fist down to the head and back.
She wore that bikini top for me. I pump my fist faster. Fuck, she definitely wore that top for me. And her nipples were hard when I prowled close.
So she’s as physically attracted to me as I am to her.
That shouldn’t be a surprise. She gave me shit from the first time I met her, but it always had a sensual edge to it. It wasn’t the type of cold disdain I might have expected considering I had hurt her best friend. There was heat coming off her, but not the rage-filled kind.
The smoldering kind.
Like she knew she was a smoking hot goddess and wanted me to recognize it at the same time she showed me how little she thought of me.
My dick is rail-hard, balls heavy with cum. I beat off, letting myself go to my dirtiest thoughts.
Aubrey, naked and on her knees, her pillowy lips spanning the width of my cock.
Me feeding it into her wet mouth as she plays with my balls.
Fuck. Yeah…fate. Fuck.
My balls draw up tight and contract. I’d come on her face. No, on those breasts she taunted me with this morning.
Blood seeps in my mouth from the gashes in my lip, and I relish the pain. The moment of focus it gives me to…
I aim for the sink. Ribbons of cum spurt onto the counter, the floor. A tribute to that she-devil in my living room.
No, not a devil.
I have a moment of clarity following my release. My resistance to Aubrey drops away.
Of course she’s not suitable. Not mate material.
She’s human. She hates me.
But some part of me already thinks of her as mine. She’s here in my penthouse. Doing my bidding.
She may be putting on a show about not doing my bidding, but the fact is, she’s here because she wants to be here. She feels the chemistry between us, same as I do.
She’s mine.