18. Six Minutes
Six Minutes
Isla
A wet dream.
I had a wet dream like a goddamn teenage boy.
I didn't even know women could have them.
And yet, the proof was undeniable.
So here I am, searching the internet to see if it's possible or if I'm just losing my mind.
Up to 37% of women have reported having them.
Huh.
Well, I guess that's that then.
Maybe it has something to do with the frequency with which I've been masturbating lately.
I can lie to myself and say it's not to torture Eamon... but of course it is.
He wants me so bad it's turning him into a caged beast. Every time I so much as brush my teeth now, the second he overhears any vibration at all, he starts slamming doors and throwing dishes around. It's fucking hilarious. And oh my god, itmakes my orgasms even more intense knowing how badly they torture him.
I wish the relief I felt after getting myself off lasted longer than a few hours, but I can't give Eamon shit for wanting me without accepting the reality that the feeling is very mutual. I just don't have to admit it to him; it can be my little secret.
A knock echoes on my door, alerting me to the devil himself standing on the other side of it.
"Yeah?" I don't turn away from the computer, changing the tab as he opens and walks through the door.
"Good morning," his jovial tone instantly makes me suspicious. "How'd you sleep?"
"Fine." No. He didn't. "You?"
"Fantastic," he beams.
Ohmygodhedefinitelyheardmecomeinmysleep .
"You're in a good mood today," I bite.
Placing coffee on my desk, his scent surrounds me, making my mouth and my cunt start to water. I swear to god he's moving slowly on purpose, his eyes languidly moving to mine as he releases the steaming mug. "What's wrong, Isla?" he coos, a knowing tilt to his smile.
"Nothing," I smooth my hair back over my shoulder, his gaze tracking the movement with predatory intent. "Why would something be wrong?"
His hand lands on the back of my chair, spinning me to face him fully. "You seem especially tightly wound this morning."
My teeth grind together, my legs threatening to do the same from the heat in his gaze. "Just... frustrated. With work."
Humor laces his features as they search my face, "Anything I can help with?"
No. "No."
He doesn't believe me for even a second. We both know exactly what kind of frustrated I am. "K. Meet me downstairs in five."
He releases the chair roughly, making it spin as he walks away. If I say anything, he'll hear me, so I use both hands to flip off his back instead.
But if I don't do as he says, there's going to be consequences that I really don't have the energy to deal with right now.
I'm just going to keep my head clear, get the training done, then I can work and ignore him for the rest of the day. Easy peasy.
Once again, I find myself wishing I could get dressed slower, that I had some excuse to move at a glacial pace, but I tried that once, and my penance was running two miles as fast as I could with Eamon yelling in my ear like a god damn drill sergeant. I hated every second of it and puked all over the ground when I was done. But I did it and didn't stop once, which was more running than I had ever done before.
Like every day, Eamon's waiting patiently for me in the training room. Only today, his infuriating smirk meets me the second I walk in the room, the smug bastard watching and waiting for me to snap. We both know it's only a matter of time before one of us does. But it won't fucking be me. The last time he tried to play these games with me he lost, so his self-satisfied smirk is going to get smacked off his face. Again.
Using the breathing technique I used to push through the discomfort of pilates for years, I walk in with my head held high. Mental pain is the exact same as physical. It's all just a chemical reaction in the body, and I'm no slave to my body's response to negative sensation.
"What are we working on today, lieutenant?" I ask with a bored tone.
His heated gaze travels down my body slowly, then back up, meeting my eyes with a heat that makes me weak in the knees. I hate this. Hate him. But my stupid vagina hasn't gotten the goddamn memo. Maybe all demons are like this, and humans are just powerless against their evil sex magic. That would explain how Bel went from a virgin to happily involved with two of them so quickly.
No.
I'm not going to disparage or try to downplay Bel's love life just because my vagina has no sense of self-preservation.
"Warm up first," he nods towards the other bane of my existence. "I want you hitting a six minute mile today."
"Six minutes, are you fucking crazy?"
His brows raise, his humor at my expense pushing me further to my breaking point. "You've been slacking and making it at six and a half. You can do six; you're just being lazy."
"You mother—" I take a deep breath, knowing he's pushing my fucking buttons on purpose. Instead of giving him the reaction he wants, I turn and walk calmly towards the treadmill, climbing on it and starting at a brisk walk to warm up my legs.
Three minutes of walking later, Eamon appears at my side, reaching over to press the button to speed up the treadmill to an almost sprint. Gritting my teeth, I keep my head down, trying to find my zen in this hell he's putting me through.
For what feels like an hour and a half, I push through, my legs moving almost as fast as I can get them to go for an extended period of time. I can feel the sweat dripping down from my hairline between my fucking tits, hear my lungs struggling for every breath. But that motherfucker called me lazy , and now I have to prove him wrong.
Finally, he presses the big red stop sign, and the belt slows to a stop.
"Five minutes and 56 seconds, good job." He pats me on the shoulder, and I glare at where his hand landed on me and has yet to move. Rather than back off, he shoves me, forcing me to scramble to stop from falling over.
"Hey!" After another hard shove, I almost lose my balance before recovering and pushing him back, still panting and fighting to catch my breath. He reaches for me, and I swat his hand away. "What the fuck?"
He swings to strike me, and I barely duck from the blow, landing one on his stomach, not that it does any good. He just pushes me away again, readying for another volley of punches.
"You need to be ready to fight back even when you're winded," he tells me, trying to grab me around my waist as if to capture me. "They won't stop and let you catch your breath."
Letting him pull me closer and using his own momentum against him, I slam my elbow into his nose, breaking his hold on me.
Round and round we go, him trying to hit or grab me and me barely dodging it, sending me on the defense over and over until I can't breathe. When my legs and arms finally give out, my defeat looks suspiciously like surrender, lumping over while Eamon stands over me laughing. I don't even have the energy to flip him off again, my body all but crumpling to the floor from the final hit he landed on my thigh, sending pained tingles up and down my leg and forcing it to buckle beneath me.
"Do you need help up?" he chuckles. I bite my tongue to keep from screaming expletives at him, even though he really fucking deserves it. Instead, I reach out my hand and let him assist me to my feet, pulling me far closer than appropriate, the scent of him drowning me again as his chest brushes against mine. Amusement and pride pull his features into a soft smile, and even though he's my least favorite person right now, he looks so handsome like this. "You did great, Isla."
Something about him looking at me with that level of pride makes my heart dance, makes me want to be worthy of that expression. I don't even have the energy to pull away from him when he's so openly admiring me and my strength.
"Really?" No one has seen all the sides of me that Eamon has. And yet, not once has he turned away from the parts of me that might scare off a lesser person. He sees the strength in me, even when I don't see it myself. If I were in a place to be honest with myself, I might even admit that he brings out the strongest side of me.
But I'm not.
He nods, smiling brilliantly at me, his gorgeous lips lifting and revealing those perfect teeth.
Oh no, don't look at his mouth.
But it's too late.
Whether on purpose or subconsciously, I'll never know, but he lightly licks his bottom lip before pulling it between those teeth, my gaze stuck on the motion like a fucking deer in the headlights. I explicitly remember how it feels to have those teeth graze my skin, how sinful and perfect they are when they dig into my flesh.
"Isla," Eamon breaks the trance, and my eyes dart up to his. "Go shower."
It's a warning. It's a chance to flee. It's kindness in a way only Eamon can offer. A way out, while making his own desires completely known as his eyes trace my body salaciously, causing heat to gather between my legs.
I nod, unable to take my eyes off him as I do, taking a step back to hopefully free myself from the spell cast on me whenever he's too close. I see his chest heaving and hear the heavy exhale through his nose as he watches me retreat. Even after training, he smells so good I can't stand it, like leather and something sweet, fresh coffee, and— god, even the light layer of sweat smells divine. Once again, he's taking over every single one of my senses. A million thoughts run through my head about all the possibilities in this moment. If I just stop walking, he'll know it for the invitation it is. That's all I have to do. Stop walking, and he'll take over, take the impossible choice off my hands, and give us what we're both clearly dying for.
But I can't.
I'm a fucking coward, and I know it. But I bolt, running from the terrifying truth that, for a moment, I forgot why sleeping with Eamon would be a bad idea.
Locking myself into the bathroom, I focus on getting ready for work, washing away all the sweat and desire, wishing the cleanliness would last longer than the time it takes for Eamon to track me down again.
He shows me the mercy of not interrupting my work day, giving me space for clarity throughout the entire day and well into the evening after I've finished my meetings and playing with numbers.
Only when I'm pleased with what I accomplished does he stick his head in my door, asking what I'd like for dinner.
"And don't say nothing . I don't want to hear you say that ever again. Pick something or I'll pick for you."
I almost laugh at how well he knows me already because I absolutely was going to say nothing.
"You pick. I'll eat whatever."
He groans in annoyance, bringing his giant body further into my room until he's leaning against my desk, looking down at me. "Alright. I'm thinking poutine."
"You always want poutine. Do you ever eat anything else?" I wish to god I could take back those words the second they leave my stupid mouth. To anyone else, the question would be an innocent taunt, but with Eamon's penchant for making everything seem dirty, it's a softball setting him up for a line that'll have me rubbing my legs together against my will.
He hums in thought, "I can think of one thing I'd rather eat."
"And what's that?" I bite. If he's going to be brazen enough to tease me, he'd better be fucking brave enough to come out and just say it.
"You."
Fuck.
I sniff dismissively, trying to fight against the imagery forcing itself into my mind, "How unfortunate for you that that's not an option."
He chuckles to himself before wiping the mirth from his face, trying to hide his laughter from me, making me even more suspicious.
"What?" I ask, wondering what is so fucking funny.
He says nothing for a second, leaning down and trapping me in my chair with his hands on both armrests. Heat claws its way through me as I fight the instinct to cower or, worse, lean closer to him.
"Isla," he coos my name, voice full of grit and hunger. "Baby."
I hate the way my body reacts when he calls me that. Those two syllables alone make my skin break out in goosebumps and make liquid start to gather between my thighs. Already my clit is pulsing, the tension of denying him over and over building to a painful need.
His nose slowly traces down mine, and I'm frozen, waiting to see what he does next. If he'll make me admit it, or if he'll do us both a favor and take it without asking. I'm not sure if I could admit, even now, that I want him. But I don't think I could tell him to stop, either.
"What are we having for dinner?" he whispers against my lips, his words at odds with the intimacy of how close we are.
"Huh?"
"Dinner?" he repeats, taunting me. "What do you want?"
"C-curry," I blurt out the only word I can even think of right now.
I can feel his lips lifting in a smile more than I can see them, victorious and infuriating. "Perfect. Be right back."
He vanishes into thin air, and I can finally fucking breathe, taking in a huge inhalation and trying to purge my mind of how close I was to giving in. Again.
And also again , I have to remind myself of all the reasons it would be a bad idea.
Within moments, the incredible scent of curry fills up the house, drawing me like a magnet to the kitchen where he stands proudly with his find. He grins at me, gesturing toward the spread of food.
We eat in silence, me furious and him all too pleased with himself.
When I'm finished, I take care of my dishes, rinsing them and throwing leftovers into the fridge for tomorrow, pointedly avoiding eye contact. While I'm craving a fucking drink to take the edge off of my anger, I think my willingness to indulge in liquor with every minor inconvenience has gotten to a dangerous level.
Instead, I grab a soda and disappear into the bathroom, getting ready for bed with a long, relaxing shower and changing into my softest pajamas. Teeth brushed, face clean and coated in the skincare Eamon's been kind enough to get from all over the planet, god damn him.
Almost relaxed enough to sleep, I sneak into my room, hoping to escape all the things in the common areas that tempt me to make poor decisions. Leaning against the door, I take a deep breath with my eyes closed, opening them just to find the catalyst for all my problems standing before me.