CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Ella
T he following Monday, Trace tells Dad he needs to find his own way to work. Grumbling, he orders an Uber. God forbid he takes the subway.
Trace then brings me to a three-story brick townhouse in a very chic Astoria neighborhood.
Last week, Balor confessed to having horrible sleep habits, ones that make him impossibly late every morning. He’s even missed appointments.
“It’s a lot for me to admit that I need this,” he confessed, blushing.
Then he assigned me the duty of waking him up. In his bed. And making sure he’s awake and into the shower.
Trace parks in the driveway and lets me inside the house through the kitchen. My jaw drops at the size of it. On the island is an envelope, and inside is a key to the house. Along with a bunch of passwords and pins.
I’m flattered by how much Balor trusts me.
Trace tips his head to me and disappears into a room behind the kitchen after fisting a Red Bull from the pantry.
Past the kitchen, through a living room with a fireplace, I find the staircase near the front door.
Swallowing, I climb, mentally counting the steps. It’s something I do to reduce stress. At the top of the stairs, a landing stretches out.
Which bedroom is his?
He never told me. A few open doors suggest those aren’t the rooms. I take Balor for a sleep-with-the-door-closed kind of guy.
“Just make sure I’m awake. I sometimes take a pill and the morning is all fog and blur,” he added last week.
I reach the second of the two closed doors. The first was a bathroom. So clearly, this one is Balor’s bedroom. He’s sleeping on the other side of this door. Resting my head on the raised panels door, I take deep breaths as my fingers close around the cool steel lever.
My breath releases when it opens. It occurs to me that I’ve never woken up anyone. Not even my dad. After bad dreams that made me cry, he came into my room.
I certainly never woke up Wes. My only moments of peace, other than being at school, were when the prick was asleep. Or at work.
Balor’s body comes into view and all I want to do is climb into bed with him. Wake him up with my mouth.
This sounded pathetically easy a few days ago, but it’s ridiculously hard because Balor is sleeping naked.
Lying on his stomach, he’s twisted in the blankets that barely cover his thick legs and sculpted ass.
My God...
Slowly, I approach the bed, breathing in the scent of musk, spice, and mint.
“Balor,” I whisper, gently nudging his shoulder.
His skin feels so warm, and I want to keep touching him, but he lurches up, still on his stomach. Shockingly, a gun appears from under a pillow, and next, I’m staring down a barrel.
“It’s me!” I cry out, frozen.
A bright green eye finally opens, and he shoves the gun back under the pillow. “Christ.” He rolls over and yanks the covers up. “What time is it?”
“Seven.” The time he told me to be here. “Did you sleep okay?”
“I don’t know.” He’s groggy and adorable with his hair mussed up.
I could gawk at him like a love-sick schoolgirl, or be the mature assistant he needs. “Come on. Up. Shower.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says seductively, staring at me with heavily-lidded eyes .
Then he pushes the covers away and stands to his full height.
Completely naked.
His glorious, thick, veiny cock is hard and bobbing.
He expects me to look away, but I stare into his eyes and then work my gaze down his body. It’s nothing I hadn’t seen before. By the time my eyes reach his cock, his hand is wrapped around it.
“Can you handle this?” he asks, gravelly, deep, and so very male.
“The gratuitous inappropriate nudity?”
“Aye. This job. Me. Like this. Every morning.”
“You don’t see me running away, do you?”
He leans in bringing our faces close. He just woke up, but his breath is sweet. “Good girl.”
“I just didn’t think I’d need a bulletproof vest.”
“I’ll never hurt you. Ever.” He spins and ambles to his bathroom.
The view from behind and his round, hairless ass is almost as good a view as the front. I stare. And tonight, alone in my bed, I’ll remember this and make myself come.
As Balor closes the bathroom door, our eyes catch and he smiles. “Make us some breakfast, butterfly.”
Heated and clouded with lust, I manage to navigate the stairs and not fall down the entire flight.
In the kitchen, I open the stainless-steel fridge and without any requests, I get creative. I take out eggs, cheese, and veggies.
By the time Balor comes down, showered and dressed, I’ve plated two veggie omelets. I remember he said he doesn’t eat meat.
He struts in wearing an MIT T-shirt under a hoodie and faded jeans. “That smells amazing.”
“Not as amazing as you,” I mumble to myself, reaching into the fridge for orange juice.
As I turn back, I nearly drop the container.
He’s practically pressed into me. “Did you say something, butterfly?”
“Nope.”
“Lying to your boss? That deserves a dose of dirty punishment.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” I bite my lip. “Juice?”
“Sure. I also need a protein shake for after my workout.”
“Absolutely. What do you—” I’m pointing inside the fridge, but he snags my hand and leads me back to the island.
“Eat before it gets cold.”
“Okay.” I pick up the fork, watching him take a seat on a stool on the other side. “I toasted up sunflower bread I found in the pantry.”
“My favorite.” He takes a bite.
“Who shops for you?”
“I have a housekeeper who comes in every day around noon. She makes up the bed. Does laundry. Cleans. Shops.”
“I see. Do I need to help her with anything?”
“No. She takes care of the house. You take care of me .” The visceral annunciation makes my core throb.
“Right.”
THE NEXT TWO DAYS GO the same way.
On Wednesday morning, I make protein waffles topped with fruit and a side of fried tomatoes. But Balor doesn’t come downstairs. I wrap up the food in foil and place it in the warming drawer, then climb the stairs to find him.
In his bedroom, he’s standing in a towel, slung low on his hips. The sight is nothing short of phenomenal .
“Problem?” I ask.
He spins around, and God, I wish that towel would fall to the ground. We can be friends with benefits. Because all I want is his cock. He’s a great man. But I’m not ready for a commitment yet.
“This is the worst part of my day. Picking out what to wear. Too much to think about.”
Taking this as a challenge, I step past him into the apartment-sized walk-in closet. Stacked wardrobes are filled with jeans, dress pants, casual pants, track pants, and suits.
I enjoy getting the hang of cooking and experimenting with breakfast recipes. But dressing him will be the favorite part of my day.
Nothing has a label, which means it’s all custom.
Don’t get me started on the ties. There are only a handful because he doesn’t wear one to the office, but they’re the softest things I’ve ever touched in my life.
His hung-up shirts rival the best layout at Barneys or The Armoury. Rows of crisp linen and raw silk long-sleeve shirts take up a whole wall. One section is drawers of neatly folded polos, bright white undershirts, graphic T’s, Henleys, and in one drawer alone, MIT merch. Sweatshirts, logo T’s, joggers, and zip-up hoodies.
One wall houses his shoes. Loafers. Oxfords. Monk straps. Boat shoes. Top brand sneakers. And hidden in the back, combat boots.
The faint blue and white paint splotches suggest they may be from the paintball craze. Because this man certainly isn’t painting houses.
I never thought about being a stylist, but I love dressing up Balor. Once he’s put together and comes down to eat, I smile watching this handsome man beautifully dressed move through the kitchen pouring his coffee, thinking I did that .
I catch his lingering stare that speak volumes about how much he wants me. But he hasn’t touched me.
“I saw something on the schedule about a meeting a few hours north of here?” I say, fixing his tie.
His eyes bore into me. “We’re visiting a semiconductor factory.”
Like other meetings, I manage his phone. In the passcodes he handed over without hesitation was his home screen lock pin.
I’m floored by his trust in me. Or it could be he knows I don’t have the slightest clue what to do with a stranger’s phone.
A man in a suit greets us at the factory, and a few minutes later, I realize he’s the CEO who works out of Hong Kong. He flew in to meet with Balor, personally.
This had been scheduled before I started working for Balor, and all I saw on his calendar was: Chip Warehouse Walkthrough.
For a hot minute, I thought we were going to Frito Lay.
After the standard tour, I’m handed a hazmat suit and minutes later, we’re in a quadruple-locked lab. It doesn’t take me long to figure out that they’re making custom semiconductor chips to Balor’s specifications. He talks freely around me, and my chest tightens when it all comes together.
I smile and nod, feigning boredom, all while my insides are twisting.
Balor is building weaponized drones.
We peel out of our hazmat suits an hour later, and when my legs tangle, I nearly fall on my face, but Balor catches me.
“I got you,” he drawls, his hands around my waist.
Damn, that feels good.
“You got me? Who’s got you?” I say with a smile.
He laughs and tugs the rest of the ugly plastic suit off me. “Superman fan, huh?”
“Sorry, Batman. I’m team Clark Kent. The movies, though. Not the comics.”
“I collected comics when I was younger.”
“They’re probably worth a lot of money.”
“I guess.” He shrugs. “I would never sell the comic books that got me through tough times.”
“Tough times? You?”
He pushes those dark, thick glasses up his nose almost robotically. “I was bullied as a kid.”
This floors me. “What suicidal moron bullies the son of...”
Balor tilts his head, alarm darkening his eyes. “There were a lot of us in my family. People lost track.”
“Some say it builds character.” I straighten my spine.
“And an enemies list,” he says low. “I got hurt rather bad my freshman year at MIT. My brothers... Took care of it.”
“And do you...” The air leaves my lungs. “Take care of people?”
“Aye.” He waves his phone. “Revenge via technology.”
I relax. I can deal with the mafia connection if his hands aren’t stained in blood. I don’t know if I could date a killer. I know that appeals to some women who crave alpha men who will burn down the world for them. After what I went through with Wes, I’m not sure I could ever trust that a man prone to violence would not turn that anger on me.
Lost in my head, I catch on that the assistant for the CEO says her boss would like to have dinner with us. Balor fidgets and politely refuses.
They’d treated us to lunch already.
“It’s getting late, and there’s a storm coming,” Balor mentions the heavy snowfall the meteorologists have been promising all day.
I’d forgotten about it, but looking up at the sky, a swirl of angry gray clouds takes my breath away.
Moisture in the air thickens, and the temperature drops quickly.
We’re at least one hundred miles from Astoria.
With Balor’s hand on the small of my back, we leave the building, a glass fa?ade that had sparkled against the blue sky earlier.
“Did the CEO travel twenty-three hours just for that two-hour tour?” I ask Balor.
“Aye. I insisted. That’s how I know he’s taking my business seriously.”
At Balor’s SUV, I notice my skirt twisted getting in and out of that hazmat suit.
When I adjust the zipper before getting into the Rivian, an electric land yacht, Balor does a double-take at me.
“What?” I ask.
“I don’t want to sound rude. But did you wear that same outfit a couple of days ago?”
Horror floods through me, and my cheeks flare with heat. “Um. Yeah?”
“Are you telling me or asking me?”
“I... I don’t have many winter clothes left right now.”
“Left?”
My face heats up. “All my things are still at Wes’ house. I basically fled with the clothes on my back and my passport.”
Fury boils in his eyes. “What’s his address? I’m going there right now to get your belongings.”
And just like that, I could turn this guy into a murderer. Because it would come down to that, knowing Wes.
Shaking my head, I say, “No. I’m sure he threw it all away. That shows I mean nothing to him.”
Balor opens the rear door to the Rivian. “Get in. Now. ”
“I’m serious—”
Two thick fingers land on my mouth. The heat we generated those few hours weeks ago roars like kerosene from a single touch. “So am I. Get. In.”
Giving up, I slide into the backseat, and when the door closes behind Balor, Trace pulls away.
“Please,” I beg. “I know you’re powerful. And your family is...”
“Deadly.”
“Look, he’s a cop, all right,” I blurt and wait for the flicker of hesitation in Balor’s eyes. “I don’t want to make trouble for you.”
“Where is he a cop? What precinct?” Balor’s face goes rigid.
“He bounces around. He’s a sergeant of a special unit, I forget which one.”
Rubbing his knuckles, he says, “We have cops in our pockets.”
“Have you ever tried to pit one against a fellow officer?” I whisper. “They protect their own.”
Balor’s jaw tenses. Shaking his head, he murmurs, “You promise you haven’t heard from him?”
“Yes, I promise.” I nod exaggeratedly.
“Then buy more clothes for yourself.” Balor strokes the ponytail that falls over my shoulder. “Do you need a day off?”
“It all happened so fast six months ago. When we got to Sydney, I only had a few hundred dollars in the bank. Working as a special-ed teacher doesn’t pay much. Dad gave me his credit card, and I bought clothes there. But it was summer.”
“Spend the money I gave you. I gave you twenty thousand dollars.”
“I don’t want that money.” How can I explain the pit that landed in my stomach when I took it ?
“Why?”
“I screwed you because I liked you and I wanted you. I didn’t want to be paid.”
Trace cackles from the front seat.
“Pipe down, Quinlan.”
“Aye, sir.”
Men like Balor who travel with guards and drivers have to trust the people who see them behind the veil.
“You liked me?” Balor sets his gaze back to me, speaking softer. Lower. Just to me.
“Of course.” I inhale and struggle to speak. “Didn’t you...like me?”
You fucked me like you did.
His eyes slip closed. “I did like you. It felt different. I eventually figured out why.”
“Because I wasn’t really a hooker,” I mutter under my breath. “Do you still...like me?”
I’m tempted to remind him of the bulge I often see in his pants. But I’m old enough to know men can fuck women they hate really well, too.
Not that Balor hates me. But men can fuck without emotions on the turn of a dime.
“I do like you, Ella.”
“Then—”
“Balor, 5-0, coming up on my rear,” Trace says, stoically. “Lights and sirens.”
I freeze. 5-0. Cops.
“What?” Balor leans into the front compartment from the back seat where he and I usually sit when Trace drives us around. “We’re not even doing sixty.”
“Balor...” I whisper. “Cop.”
“It’s okay.” He squeezes my hand. “Quinlan, your heat’s registered?”
“This one is.”
“Pull over. ”
Only, there’s a loud pop and the car swerves hard to the right. The last thing I see is the center median coming up in the windshield.