chapter thirty
Wren
A dramatic gasp wakes me up with a start.
“Bitch! Big Bitch!” Angelica squawks from the end of the bed.
“Get out, bird,” Colton groans from where his head is currently half under a pillow to block out the morning light.
I giggle as Angelica flaps over to stand on his back.
“Ouch! Your fucking demon talons!”
Colton shoots up, and she flutters in the air to avoid him.
“Berries!” she cries indignantly.
I look at the clock on my nightstand. We’re an hour late for her usual breakfast time. I slide out of bed, pulling the sheet a little with me.
“Naked!” Angelica gasps as she stares directly at Colton’s bare ass. She turns her head to me. “Naked!”
I giggle and pull on my bathrobe. “Angelica, when a mommy and a daddy….”
Angelica interrupts my joke with an upsetting and also accurate imitation of my voice, crying out in pleasure.
Colton laughs and pulls on the black basketball shorts from last night. “I’ll get coffee started. You feed the bird.”
“Alright, Angelica, let’s go,” I sigh and raise my arm for her to land on me.
I feed her breakfast and fill her water before hopping in the shower. Part of me doesn’t want to wash the scent of Jay— I mean Colton—off me. But the other part knows it is gross. I shower quickly and wind my wet hair up into a ballerina bun. Dressed in running shorts and a flowy tank, I’m ready for a day of yard work.
Jay is sitting at the little table on the patio, a carafe of coffee on the surface. A plate of cheesy scrambled eggs and toast sits in front of my place. “Good boy, getting me breakfast and coffee.”
His spine straightens when he hears my praise and I realize while he may be a trained weapon, I hold the trigger. “It’s eggs and toast. Coffee should still be hot.”
“Mistress.”
“Coffee should still be hot, Mistress .”
“Lovely,” I say and sit in my seat.
“You look beautiful this morning,” Colton says over his mug. His blue eyes are warm and flirtatious. I want to dive into them.
“Thank you. You’d look better without the mask,” I tease.
He rolls his eyes and shakes his head with a huff of a laugh. “We have to maintain some semblance of boundaries.”
“I wish we wouldn’t,” I say.
“Fire me,” he challenges.
I pause. I could fire him. He’d likely stay right here with me, right? We were past that, right? Right ? But then, how would he pay for his mother’s treatments?
Fuck, I’m so dumb. I can pay.
Gemma is coming over for our sleepover tonight. I’ll talk it through with her. Colton and I are so new, and I want this to go well. I need another opinion on what to do. I pocket the thought for later.
Colton gets up to put his plate in the dishwasher. He’s also freshly showered. I can tell by the scent of his soap in the air when he moves. He’s wearing a pair of blue shorts and an athletic tank top. I admire his body as he bends to close the dishwasher. Where we sit at the table is not in view of the cameras. If we sat on the other side, our faces would be visible in the security camera. It hadn’t been an intentional seating arrangement, we’d chosen because these seats overlook the bird feeders. But now, I am thankful for the choice.
“Crawl,” I bark out as he turns to come back out to the table.
He slowly gets to his knees, his eyes locking with mine.
I turn in my chair and open my legs. Slowly, I run my fingers over my thighs and slip under the fabric of my shorts. I’m already wet from watching him.
He crawls to me, his eyes never leaving mine except to watch my fingers dip in and out. I slide my shorts off, leaving me in a pair of gray panties. Something about seeing him on his knees at my command has me so turned on I’m already soaking the cotton.
“Stop. Watch me come,” I command. My other hand slips down and plays with my clit while I fuck myself.
He stops crawling and watches me. I see him swallow and adjust himself in his shorts.
“Pull it out. I want to see you.”
He obeys instantly and goes back to a crawling position. The waistband of his shorts and boxer briefs are tight enough under his balls it’s holding his cock against his stomach. Precum leaks and drips slowly to the floor. I grin and bite my lip.
“Touch yourself.” I demand.
He wraps one hand around his cock and slowly strokes it. His eyes flutter in pleasure but remain on my pussy.
I look down to see the growing wet spot on my gray panties and almost laugh. I’d never been as wet as I have been for this man. And I don’t even know his face. Holding off on coming until he does proves to be difficult because I think he’s also holding off until I climax. We both edge ourselves a few times before I finally decide to let the next wave happen.
He crawls closer as my hands work furiously under my soaked panties. I feel my arousal wetting the chair below me and his eyes follow drips to the patio floor. He looks up at me as he sits back on his heels. His eyes roll as he comes hard. The first jet lands on his chest, the second and third reach his mask at his chin, the rest coat his stomach and hand.
Seeing him covered in his own release finally tips me over that final edge into bliss. I bite down on a cry of pleasure as I watch him slowly pump and squeeze the last drops of come out of his cock. My pussy clamps down on my fingers, and I feel more arousal pouring from me.
“Fuck! Come clean me up,” I gasp at him as I extract my hands from my panties.
Colton eagerly crawls the rest of the way to me and roughly strips off my ruined panties and lifts his mask. His mouth is on me before I can catch my breath. I squeal at the overstimulation. He sucks at my clit, massaging it with his tongue so well I’m coming again in record time.
He sits back on his heels and wipes his mouth with his hand. We breathe heavily and smile at each other before he puts his mask back on. His smile, the part of it I can see, is bright and full of contentment. When the day comes that I can see the entire thing, I know it will be blinding.
We finish our breakfast and Colton goes down to the basement to work out. I’m not allowed down there when he’s working out because he takes off his mask. While he’s busy, I get cleaned up and start a loaf of sourdough from a starter I picked up from a local bakery last week. Princess Dill-dough has been treated like a pet for the week and I finally have the time to bake with her. A loaf has been in its last proof in my fridge overnight and I set the oven to preheat.
While the oven is heating, I decide that regardless of if I fire Colton from being my Blue Jay or not, I still want to help him with his mom. I feel bad I hadn’t done it earlier. In my world, it is odd to not be asked for money. A Blue Jay has never asked before, but practically everyone else has at some point. Gemma did only that one time when her purse got stolen in Rome, which I don’t count as her actually asking for money. That was Gemma being Gemma overseas and unsupervised.
With determination and a first name, I call the hospital system near where his mom lives. I call as Colton’s employer, who wants to make a surprise gift of paying off his mom’s medical debt. I let the poor lady on the phone know I am not allowed to know the last name, but I give his mom’s first name I overheard once, “Sandy,” and say she has a massive, blond-haired and blue-eyed son. The woman on the phone is mildly annoyed until I tell her I will pay the entire debt and have the company make an additional donation to the hospital system. She puts me on hold while she contacts the treatment center we believe his mom is in. The hold music clashes with the rock music that echoes through the house from the basement gym.
“Do you know if he is recently home from the armed forces and brought in a cherry cake and lemon scones for the nurses?” the woman asks with a laugh.
“I do know! Yes, he just got home, and he brought in bakes!” Because I made them, but that’s irrelevant.
“Alright, then we know for sure who Sandy is. Also, I’ve sent an email with your information to our donations coordinator, and they will be in touch soon,” she says. The information she was given is Wren Angelica, my fake name for coordinating events and charities for Dad’s company.
After I give her the payment information to cover the entirety of Sandy’s bill, I insist all future treatments be charged directly to the company. I’ll be sure to give our accounting team a heads up, but they typically know if I authorized it, it’s not frivolous. I send the emailed receipts over to the person who handles our charitable expenses and am pulling the finished loaf of sourdough out of the oven as Colton reappears.
He’s freshly showered and hungry again. He opens the fridge while humming over the smell of the bread.
“It’s still hot. I just pulled it out,” I say as I knock on the bottom to check that it’s done.
“Wait, what does this mean?” he asks as he pulls out a glass container of leftovers. A Post-It note with “WET” is attached to the outside.
“It means it is mine. My initials, see?”
“Oh, wet. Because you’re always wet.”
“Right. The other container is yours,” I say and narrow my eyes at him until he puts my container back.
“‘BJ’ is mine?” he scoffs.
“Blue Jay. I didn’t know your name when I wrote it.”
“Wet BJ. We make a pretty good team, if I say so myself,” he says, and rips open the container to eat the Chinese leftovers cold.
“Colton Alexander,” I say thoughtfully. “What’s your last name initial?”
“T.”
That would have been nice to know before I made the phone call today.
“Wet cat is an even better team name,” I laugh.
He makes a high-pitched purring sound as I take out the bread knife. I saw into the bread, and I’m almost too excited to do it neatly. For some reason, sourdough has become the hallmark of the cute cottage core lifestyle. I don’t think I’ve had it before. Even though it’s super trendy, I don’t think I’ve ever ordered it anywhere. So, to make it today, before spending the day gardening, in my cute kitchen with sunshine in the windows, it is a pinnacle of my happiness.
Colton pulls out the butter dish and a knife, and I slide a freshly sliced piece across the counter for him. It is steaming as he slaps a pat of good yellow butter on it. I slice my own while he takes a bite. I’m buttering my slice when he stops moving.
“Is it so good you’re immobilized?”
He swallows it hard. I cringe at the sound.
I take a small bite. It is very sour. The butter doesn’t even touch the flavor. It is so sour my eyes water and my lips almost pucker.
“Hey, babe, nice try,” Colton tries to soothe. His eyes are watery too and he’s reaching for the cold Chinese food again. “Texture? Ten out of ten.”
“It’s so bad,” I say sadly around the wad of Sourpatch Sourdough in my mouth.
“Spit it out before you puke!”
I spit it out with a dramatic heave and wipe my eyes.
“Maybe… we don’t like sourdough?” he suggests.
“Can we be cottage core aesthetic without sourdough?”
“I don’t know what this means, but yeah. If it tastes like that, then we can totally be whatever you want to be without… that.” He shivers as he points to the bread.
I groan and rest my head on the counter.