17. Eleanor
17
Eleanor
I’m not sure that whatever’s between us is enough for me to get over that.
I knew we’d wake up like this. I knew that if I didn’t lock the door—or, according to him, even if I did—then the next-morning entanglement would be as embarrassing as it is sexually frustrating.
I just didn’t expect to be the one spooning him.
Though, to be fair, as I come to full consciousness, I realize that it’s not technically an all-out spooning. My hand is resting on his side just above his hip, my legs are curled in the space behind his knees, and my head is tucked against his back, but my ass is scooted back far enough that we’re not quite nestled.
His breathing is deep, even, and I can even hear a faint honk-shoo, so I allow myself the opportunity to stare at the ridged, defined contours of his back. The skin is stretched tight over all that muscle, and mostly hairless. But it isn’t exactly smooth, with plenty of freckles, moles and shiny pink scars. There’s a round one near his right shoulder, a long cut that slashes diagonally through his spine, another round one down by his hip, and a tiny crescent moon-shaped one a few inches to the left.
He’s clearly been through a lot. I wonder if it ever made him cry. Because I can’t seem to.
Last night, I sat on the floor of that cavernous shower with, like, seven shower heads spraying me, and hugged my knees and waited for the tears. I gave up when my ass fell asleep, and finished my shower. I used the strange, scentless body wash on the shelf, wrapped myself in a huge fluffy towel, then I scoped out the bathroom for extras of things like toothbrushes and floss, and found completely bare drawers .
I put my own oversized tee-shirt and shorts on afterwards, cringing at the way the pits were still soggy from my workout. But whether or not I can fit into one of his shirts is not really a question I need answered. There isn’t much point in trying to have one of those cute, look how big his shirt is on my tiny body moments, and I came to terms with that a long time ago.
I sat in the middle of the bed that felt bigger than a king—not that I’d really know, my futon is a queen at best—staring at that closed door, debating turning that lock. In the end I was too tired to put up a fight or deal with the ominous consequences.
And since I’m not ready to deal with the consequences of him waking and finding me all over him like this, either… Gingerly, I lift my hand and pull away. He barely shifts in response, so I roll onto my back and stare at the crisp, white ceiling. I scratch my knee, then do a double take and make a face. Great. Another flare up.
I scooch to the edge of the bed slowly, trying not to jostle him on the memory foam, and creep to the bathroom. I’m so used to the floor creaking under every move I make in my apartment, I’m surprised with how quiet I can actually be.
Since the night before was such an emotional blur, I didn’t really register the splendor of the bathroom. Walking in, I gape.
I think I actually have found a room roughly the size of my apartment.
The shower stands next to a large, jetted tub, spanning the whole far side of the room. Apparently, the toilet gets its own little room within the bathroom because, why not? But the other door, when opened, has a stacked washer-dryer unit next to a rack with a robe on a hanger and a fully-loaded linen closet. I should have looked in here the night before, because there are baskets with all kinds of helpful toiletries. Well, that’s a pleasant surprise.
First, I brush my teeth for a long time at the double vanity, staring blankly into the mirror with built-in back lighting. Then, I go to the duffel I’d left in here in the corner and retrieve my underwear, bra, socks and the towel I apparently stole from the gym. That joins the clothes I’m wearing in the washer. Then, because it feels like a wastefully small load, I throw in the towel I used last night. And the other one on the rack .
My shower last night had such an unsatisfying conclusion—having to put dirty clothes back on—that I decide to take another. When I step in, the steam that pours out gives me a flashback of the dark hole of a gun barrel poking through the swirling white. But as the dread starts to curl around my guts, I manage to keep it at bay by physically shaking myself out of it.
He’s dead. I saw him die.
I grab the robe from the closet and am relieved when it cinches closed. Barely, but it’s better than nothing—which is what I’ll have for the next hour and a half until my only clothes are clean and dry. And that’s a long time to try to hide from Mac in a place where there’s nowhere to sit, unless you count the toilet.
I brace myself and open the door. He’s on his back, scrolling through his phone with a scowl, the covers slung low over his hips, giving me a truly spectacular view of his chest and abs and biceps…God, there’s not a single inch of him that isn’t tanned, toned and perfect. He looks over when the door opens and the scowl melts away.
“Mornin’, darlin’.”
His voice is scratchy, rubbing against my skin like sandpaper. I reach down to itch my knee and he tracks the movement. “Morning,” I reply softly.
“You finished in the bathroom?”
I nod and quickly move to the other side of the room to stay out of his way. Thankfully—unfortunately?—he’s not naked, but boxers don’t hide much. I make myself look away, focusing down on the bedside table that was next to where I was laying. Our awkward morning dance doesn’t last long as he closes the door.
The urge to pick up my phone is strong, especially in my boredom. And now that I’ve confined myself to the bedroom for the next 85 minutes until the dryer cycle is done, I’m especially at a loss. I cross the room, curious about the view I couldn’t see last night, as I hear the shower turn on.
The grounds—yeah, a yard this big has to be called grounds—are spectacular. There’s a dusting of frost on what must be acres and acres of grass, making it look like sparkling waves of blue-green. We’re facing the back of the house, because I can see a covered pool below us and a large building to the left of it that must be a pool house. There’s some bird activity, but not much other movement than empty tree branches swaying in the wind, and no other wildlife that I can see. I guess deer can’t jump a fence this high.
Mac emerges some time later, slipping a watch over his hand and securing it. My mouth goes dry. Not only is watching a man putting on a watch the hottest fucking thing for some reason, he’s also in only a towel. I turn firmly back around.
“Oh, we’re still doing that, huh?” his voice is thick with amusement.
“Doing what?”
“Pretending you don’t want to look.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I choose silence. I can’t hear him as he moves across the thick carpet, but I do hear the closet door open. And I can hear his voice clearly as he says, “I have a meeting this morning with the team, then I’ll probably have to go do some work for a bit. Feel free to explore.”
“Okay.”
“After your clothes are done.”
I roll my eyes. Duh. Like I’d walk around an unfamiliar house in a robe that barely fits me with nothing underneath. “Don’t worry, I won’t embarrass you by accidentally flashing your roommates.”
“That’s good, because I’d have to cut out their eyes.”
I swallow. I can’t tell if that’s a joke.
A memory surfaces; I want the ojos. I shiver.
“You can explore wherever you want inside the fence—just knock first if a door is closed,” he says, coming back out, fully clothed. He’s rubbing his hair violently with the towel, so he can’t see as I take in and appreciate the sight of him in the daylight, wearing those dark jeans and henley so well.
“Okay.”
He crosses the room again and I hear what I assume is the towel being hung, then he leaves. No goodbye.
Eventually, my clothes are dry, and I can leave the room. I wander slowly through the house, starting at the top. There’s a converted attic space above our floor with another bedroom and a bathroom, a kitchenette and a lounging space with a giant TV and leather reclining couch—like its own little apartment. It all looks completely untouched .
Mac seems to be the only one on the third floor, the other bedrooms have an empty feel to them and the beds aren’t made up with sheets. There’s an office, though, and I find a few of what must be Mac’s personal electronics and what has to be gun cleaning equipment that I leave the hell alone. The second floor has more shut doors, so I assume both Dimitri and Wesley stay there.
It gets warmer the further down I go. The gym and movie room in the basement genuinely excite me, then I’m distracted by the elevator. I use it to ride back up to the first floor, just because.
And the first floor is just a complete sensory overload. I’ve never been in a house that has a hallway before. My parents’ house was firmly middle class—each room led to another—but this place has so many rooms it needs its own highway to expedite the trip from one end to the other. And while the library, conservatory, dining room and game room are all impressive in their own right, I end up back in the kitchen.
This time, I let myself be nosy. I open cabinet doors and paw through the fridge and freezer. The pantry is so well-stocked and organized, I almost start drooling. They have every gadget I do, plus any I’ve ever even considered wanting.
The doorbell rings, pausing me in my exploration. I wait for the sound of footsteps—or, in Dimitri’s case, stomping—but nothing comes. I’m probably not supposed to answer the door. But I move into the foyer out of sheer curiosity, and peek through the peephole.
I’m confused. No one is there.
It feels off, but it’s not like just anyone can get in through that gate, right? Mac needed a fingerprint and a code. And though it feels wrong to answer the door at someone else’s house, I’m too curious now. I twist the locks and open the door, really hoping this isn’t some kind of trick.
But it’s not a trick. It’s… a grocery delivery. I glimpse the back of a sedan with Jersey plates, disappearing down the driveway, and take a step forward to examine the tidy pile. Then, I blow out a breath. This is going to take a few trips.
Some time later, it’s all laid out on the countertop and I’m out of breath. And kind of flabbergasted. Six dozen eggs, fifteen pounds of chicken breast, a huge box of broccoli, twenty bags of lettuce, four gallons of milk, a bag of onions, a bag of potatoes, ten pounds of ground beef, some berries and oranges, plain nonfat Greek yogurt, oatmeal… it’s a powerlifter’s wet dream—all lean protein and fiber.
I have a sinking feeling about the food situation in this house.
“—if something happens, so there is someone in place… ah, good. The groceries have come.”
I look up at the sound of what I assume is Dimitri’s voice, from the accent. The three of them enter the kitchen, and it shrinks in size as the testosterone fills the space. I’m seriously not sure how three men this good-looking are working together and the job isn’t, like, actors or porn stars.
My brain momentarily goes on the fritz at that thought.
Mac smiles at me. “Did you bring all that inside, darlin’? You didn’t have to do that.”
I shrug, though I secretly thrill at the use of my pet name in front of his friends. “Does this look… right?” While I want to be sure they got everything they wanted, I’m hoping they didn’t. Where’s the fat, or spice, or acidity? Where’s the flavor?
Dimitri’s eyes scan the pile, and it doesn’t take very long. “Yes. Every week, the same.”
“That’s so…” I clear my throat, trying to find the right word, “efficient.”
I hear a snicker, but I’m not sure whether it’s Mac or Wesley. Dimitri turns his stony glare on them. “I know,” he replies curtly.
I eye the pile of food and my fingers itch to do something with it. Not only will it really calm me down to have something to focus on other than my own boredom, but it’ll give me a way to contribute. “I can… I mean, do you want me to make you guys some meals?”
“Yes,” Mac replies instantly, at the same time Dimitri says, “No.”
“Trust me, man, you really want her to,” Mac tells the larger guy, clapping him on the shoulder. “She’s a chef.”
I try to hide how I puff with pleasure at that. It’s technically an accurate description of my job, though usually I call myself a line cook. But Mac’s total confidence in me, and the way he alludes to my skills eagerly and with pride, makes me all gooey.
“I prefer to know precisely what I am eating,” Dimitri argues, but he’s not looking at me when he says it .
“Come on, live a little,” Mac replies.
As they go back and forth, Wesley weaves around them and the island, grabs an energy drink from the fridge, and starts loading the new pack in. “I’ll let them sort it out between them, but I’m in either way,” he says softly, shooting me a smile. “A real chef, eh? What a treat you are.”
I smile back at him and open my mouth to rattle off my credentials, but Mac cuts me off with a growled, “Stop flirting and get back to your cave.”
My head whips around, but his ire isn’t for me. He’s glaring at Wesley.
“I was talking to the lady,” Wesley clips back, sending me a surreptitious wink that earns him another displeased noise from across the kitchen.
“I promise it’ll be restaurant quality,” I say, hoping to tempt Dimitri. It’ll be easier to just prep everything instead of leaving some out for him to be stubborn about. “I’ll keep it healthy, if that’s what you want. I’ll be able to do a lot—this is basically a commercial kitchen. Except the knives kind of suck, for some reason.”
Dimitri looks at me suspiciously. “Why do they suck?”
“They’re just old. Dull.”
When he starts muttering in what I’m now sure is Russian and strides from the room, I throw Mac a bewildered look. “What did I say?”
Wesley is the one to answer, as he slides the last of his drinks onto the shelf. “You implied there was a knife under his roof that isn’t sharp enough to splice a hair. He won’t stand for it. Don’t be surprised if you come back and every knife has been taken to the grinding stone.”
I press my lips together to tamp down on the smile. “That’s a bit neurotic.”
“You don’t know the half.”
I feel an arm come around my waist from behind and I’m stunned as I’m physically blocked from Wesley’s line of sight. I didn’t even hear Mac move, but here he is, pressing me against the counter and shielding my body with his own.
“Back to your cave,” Mac says, his voice settling in a low, threatening register. He’s looking at me, staring at my mouth.
“Oh, but I was just about to drag her back there by her hair,” Wesley laughs as he walks out.
I want, so badly, to squirm against him, but I have a feeling that would end poorly for me. I can already feel his pelvis pressing against mine and just a bit of pressure might be the end of me. So, I stay still, letting him surround me, tilting my head back so much further than I’m used to. I want to protest the manhandling and the crowding, but the dirty truth is… I’m worried if I do, he’ll stop.
“I’m not allowed to talk to other men at all, now?” I ask in an accusatory tone. Every deep breath makes my chest brush against his.
“Darlin’, say those words you know I want to hear and you can talk to anyone you want. Are you going to stop pretending?”
I sigh. “Okay, I give up. I’ll admit there’s something here; you want me, I want you. But you know it can’t be that simple for us—for me. This thing you do… I’m not sure that whatever’s between us is enough for me to get over that. And I don’t know if I can do just sex ,” I finish with a shrug, feeling especially awkward. If we have sex, there’s no way I’m not getting my heart broken.
“We’re way past just sex,” he agrees.
I look down. “So… where does that leave us?”
He takes a pointed step back, looks me up and down, meets my eye, and adjusts the front of his pants. “Just so we’re clear, you did this,” he says, meaning the hardened bulge. “And once you’re mine, you’re going to be responsible for your actions when you do. Until then, well… it’s just gonna be real hard for me to see you smiling at any other guy, so keep that in mind.”
My mouth has gone so dry, I can’t even swallow, as my mind immediately creates my very own alternate reality where I drop to my knees to take care of that straining length that’s gotten so hard for me.
My face flushes as heat creeps up my neck. “It’s like you heard what I said and listened to none of it.”
“Oh, I listened, darlin’. You said no; I backed off. Isn’t going to stop me from fantasizing,” he says with a wink.
He turns around and produces a pad of paper from one of the drawers near the double doors that lead outside. With a flick of his wrist, he tosses it onto the island. “I’m going to send someone to pick up your things so you don’t have to wash those clothes every day. And you were scratching this morning, so I’m guessing you need your medication. Make me a list of what you want. ”
Somewhat thrown off by the abrupt change in temperature of the exchange, I pull the paper closer to me and pick up the pen, then hesitate. “How long do you think I’ll be staying?” At his scowl, I quickly add, “just because there’s a difference between a night and a week in terms of, you know, things like toiletries and underwear…”
I feel myself blush a little, thinking about what else is in my underwear drawer. Just from being so close to him, I’m definitely in need of a little bit of a release. But if Mac is going to make me share his bed, there’s no way in hell I’ll be using my vibrator. I’m not tempting fate. Guess we’re going old-school, in stolen moments when he’s not around.
“There’s a possibility this will all be over next Sunday.”
So soon? I swallow the jumbled mess of excitement and disappointment that I really don’t feel like untangling. I nod and start listing things, adding a buffer for the “possibility” that a week is underestimating. I feel a twinge of guilt at making some stranger lift my overpacked bags, but push it aside.
When I’m done, he takes my list, scans it, glances at me with an unreadable expression, and nods. He walks away and I see him make a note at the bottom of the paper.
As he disappears into the hallway, I hear, “Felix—I know, twice in one week… yeah, you’re the luckiest boy in all the land.”