11. Darcy
Chapter 11
Darcy
M Y brAIN CAN’T seem to get the words to my mouth.
My eyes can’t seem to do anything but land on Anthony’s ass as he walks to his bedroom and shuts the door.
And my mouth can’t seem to close.
Anthony Hall wants me.
More than that, Anthony Hall wants to punish me.
The ache between my legs is nearly unbearable. I lower myself to the couch and squeeze my thighs, angling over the seam of my overalls for any sort of precious relief.
What am I going to do?
I’m going to do something, that’s for damn sure. Because he finally gave me the tiniest glimpse of what’s happening in that mind of his, and that taste was enough to leave me gasping.
Never mind listening to him in the bathroom. And for the record, I wasn’t creeping on him. I came in and set my bags down, and it was impossible not to hear the way he was grunting and moaning in there.
And it was hot, okay? It was fucking hot as hell and even though him being with another woman was definitely a possibility, I was drawn to the damn door like a moth to a flame.
Then I thought he might have actually said my name, which I’m sure was wishful thinking. I heard the water turn off, and I should have left. I know. But then I realized there was definitely not a woman in there, and before I could pull myself out of the fantasy of wondering what his ridiculous body might look like with water sluicing down it in the shower, the door opened and there he was, glaring down at me like it was my fault he had to get himself off in the shower.
And the things he said? Holy shit .
Never has it occurred to me that I might want to be punished, but now that he’s said it, I…think I do.
I think I might be desperate for it, in fact.
But for now, I need to do my job.
Assuming I can actually focus.
With a groan, I leave the couch and make my way to the huge windows overlooking the ocean. What an incredible view. Who needs television when you have this to look at every day? The building faces northwest, and I bet this place gets a gorgeous sunset.
Maybe that’s why he said he liked blues, greens, yellows, and oranges. It’s the damn sunset. Grumpy, grunty, masculine as all get-out Anthony Hall loves sunsets. I know it like I know there are fish in the ocean.
Grinning, I turn to the day’s work. I know exactly how to finish the pool table, for one thing. And now I know how to finish decorating.
If only I could finish myself. Ha.
Anthony emerges from the bedroom a few minutes later, dressed in his typical dark jeans and black Hall’s Balls T-shirt, looking even more furious, if that’s even possible. His boots stomp as he makes his way to the kitchen to brew coffee. I bite my lip at the noise coming from in there, the sound far more intense than it needs to be.
Good. He should be as frustrated as I am. I don’t know why he didn’t just kiss me. But I could have kissed him, too, so this is a two-way street.
I’ve just finished cutting in a perfect rectangle for the wiring in the drywall when Anthony’s work boots appear in my periphery. I set my Dremel down and lift the safety glasses onto the top of my head, then sit back on my heels.
“Coffee.” He thrusts it in my direction, and I note he’s added the perfect amount of cream to it. I bet he’s also added the precise amount of sugar that I like, too. Because make no mistake: I’ve noticed the appearance of both in his kitchen, and I know it’s not for him. He takes his black, whereas I use mine as a delivery vehicle for delicious sugar and cream.
I take the mug and lift it to my lips, keeping my eyes on his the entire time. I’m more than aware of our positions here: him, standing before me, and me, kneeling in front of him.
I wonder how big his dick is. I bet it’s big. He’s big, so it only stands to reason that the man’s dick would be proportionate. And, God, I bet he knows how to use it. The guys I’ve been with have been less than talented, and despite me directing them to angle this way and that, or go slower or faster, not one of them ever brought me to orgasm. Anthony, though? I bet he could make me come with ease.
“What’s that look for?” he demands.
“Thinking how easily you could make me orgasm.” If the man is going to talk to me about putting me over his knee and spanking me, then he better be prepared to get talked to right back.
His gaze narrows, but he doesn’t speak.
Interesting.
“Anyway,” I say, rising to my incredibly impressive five-feet-four, “thank you for the coffee. It’s just how I like it.”
He jerks his chin in a nod, then turns to leave.
“I’m grabbing lunch from the diner later. You want some?” We’ve done this before, so it’s not a stretch for me to ask.
“No.” He doesn’t bother to look back at me, his muscles flexing beneath his shirt as he opens the door and slips out, shutting it behind him with a bang.
But you know what? Fuck that. I’m bringing him lunch, anyway.
A few hours later, my knees are aching from all the floor action I’ve done today, and I grip the railing to keep from buckling as I make my way downstairs. The sights and sounds of Hall’s Balls are almost an assault after the calm solitude of the loft upstairs, and I plaster myself to the door, narrowly avoiding being run over by a very excited kid, waving handfuls of Skee-ball tickets as he runs to show them off.
Lights blink and flash all around me, kids squealing and hollering, the sound of balls cracking as a game of pool gets going. I actually remember coming here when it first opened. I was, what, fourteen? Yikes. Probably shouldn’t be thinking of how my fourteen-year-old self used to come here to play pool and pretend I was grown up, because here I am now, working on the loft upstairs and wanting very much to bang the same man who was responsible for all that fun at fourteen.
With a glance in the bar’s direction, I see the man himself braced against the bar, talking to a customer, his arms flexing as they hold him up.
I want to lick the divots in his arm muscles. That’s how ridiculously distracted Anthony has gotten me—I’m thinking about divots in arm muscles, of all things.
But to be fair, there are no guys my age running around with divots in their arms. Maybe I’m looking in the wrong places for that, but yeah...I want the forty-one-year-old.
When I come back from the diner, I head to the bar without hesitation.
“Aw, did you bring me lunch, Darcy?” Harrison asks, flirting shamelessly with me like always. He’s my age, maybe a few years older, and entirely appropriate for me. Maybe even legitimately interested. But I only have eyes for his grumpy boss.
Ignoring Harrison, I pull out the quinoa salad with extra chicken and dressing on the side and lay it in front of Anthony. It’s his usual.
“I said I didn’t want lunch.”
“What makes you think I care what you do or don’t want, Anthony?”
His eyes flash, the green in them blooming in irritation. What would it take to make his eyes all green? How furious would he have to be?
How bad is it that I want to see just how far I can push him?
Beside Anthony, Harrison watches us, his gaze bouncing back and forth as though we’re the most interesting tennis match he’s ever seen. Time seems to stretch, but I stay quiet, holding his gaze, letting the anger seep into me, swimming in it. Luxuriating in it. Wishing he’d punish me for not listening to him. Pissed off that he seems determined not to act on the attraction.
Finally, he grabs the to-go box and stalks to the other end of the bar, flipping the lid open and stabbing the food with a fork.
I win.