Chapter 61 Elliot #2
Before I have time to unpack all that, Stuart says, “Next month, we’ll be back here.” He gives me a long, warning look. His mouth is still a line, but ice blue sparks and heats up. “Only next month, for every pink stripe on the page, I’m going to give you a stripe across your backside. Understand?”
Ungh.
“Yes, Daddy.”
“Good.” A switch flicks. All hint of menace is gone, replaced by something much softer. “In that case, let’s get dinner started. Tonight, I’m going to teach you how to make Bolognese.”
The heat in my dick expands and warms me from my head to my toes.
He sets out a chopping board and hands me a knife once we’ve both washed our hands.
“We’re going to start by finely chopping the onion, carrot, and celery.” That should be enough instruction for most people, and it kind of embarrasses me that it isn’t enough for me, but I don’t mind completely because he stands next to me and watches as I start on the onion.
“Yeah,” he says, “that’s it. Make sure you get the whole peel off and then slice it in half so you have a flat surface to work with.
” He stands so close to me that I can smell his hair when I breathe in.
Herbs and honey. His shoulder isn’t quite touching mine, but I can feel the heat from it sink through my shirt sleeve.
I hold the onion firmly with one hand and start chopping with the other.
He moves behind me and wraps his hand around mine on the knife.
His hand is so big and broad it envelops mine, making me feel small. For once, I like it.
“Tuck your fingers back like this,” he says, showing me how to ensure I don’t risk cutting myself.
He rocks the knife up and down on the board, and I watch, transfixed, as we slice the onion together.
He lets me try the carrot and celery by myself, but the second I falter, he’s back in place.
Behind me. Hot breath on my skin. The fine hair on the back of my neck stands on end when it happens and my vision swims with the effort it takes to stop myself from grinding my ass against him.
“What’s next?”
“We sauté the veggies until the onion is golden. Start with a good dab of butter in the pan and toss all this in as soon as it’s hot.”
I do as he says and chase the ingredients around the pan with a wooden spoon, jumping out of the way now and again when the butter spits. Stuart smiles when I do it. The whole room smells amazing. It smells like Luke’s house in winter. Homey and safe.
Jesus. Did I just make sautéing my bitch?
I feel a ridiculous flurry of pride, which doesn’t diminish as we brown the meat—browning meat is no sweat either, literally just toss it around in the pan until it turns brown—and add the tomatoes.
While the Bolognese simmers, Stuart and I head out to sit on the back porch with Sadie.
I throw a ball for her a couple of times, but each time she seems mildly annoyed and looks at me as if she expects me to fetch it.
Stuart is telling me all about how he adopted her from a local dog shelter. Sadie seems to enjoy the story because she’s stretched herself across one of Stuart’s feet and rolled onto her back.
I admit I try to steer the conversation a little. I mention something about an ex of mine who had a very tiny, fluffy white dog that had to sleep in bed with us. The dog was super cute, but the problem was that every time I moved in the night, the little shit tried to bite my face.
It gets a good chuckle out of Stuart and allows me to neatly segue into the question I’ve been dying to ask since this whole Daddy arrangement started.
“What about you?” My voice sounds funny when I say it, but not so much that I think he’ll notice. “What happened with your ex?”
“Damien.” He moves his lips carefully around the word as if it burns him to say it.
It hurts me to see it. It hurts me way more than it should, given that he’s explicitly spelled out what our arrangement means and what it doesn’t.
“It was one of those things that got very complicated because we made it complicated. We were together for a long time. Much longer than we should have been. We made a mess of it because neither of us wanted to face the simple truth.”
“Which was?”
“We weren’t compatible.” I’m not saying that makes me flat-out happy because the echo of sadness that sometimes clings to Stuart seems heavier and denser than usual, and I hate that, but it also definitely doesn’t upset me to hear it.
Compatibility is one of those things you either have or don’t have. And if you don’t, there’s no fixing it.
“We both thought we could change each other.” He laughs softly, “Guess we showed each other.”
“I guess so,” I say.
I have a million more questions. A hundred things I want to know. I don’t ask, though, and I can’t tell if that’s out of respect for Stuart or if it’s an attempt to protect myself.
You know what, on second thought, protecting myself seems sensible, so it’s probably the other thing.
I’m probably trying to respect Stuart and his feelings.
I must be. I feel pleased with myself. I’m behaving my ass off right now.
All in all, it’s been a good day. A very good day.
It’s been a good week too. A good month, really.
Reason, respect, and protecting myself all make sense while the lights are on, but in the dark, they swirl around me and grind into each other until they’re nothing.
Until they cease to exist. I can’t sleep.
I’ve lain this way and that. I can’t find my comfortable spot.
I’ve opened the window and closed it again.
I’ve had water and taken a piss. I’ve made myself come twice.
All of it has done exactly nothing to help.
Eventually, I fling the covers back and get out of bed.
I take my phone with me and creep down the stairs as quietly as possible, heart clattering in terror that the next step I take will be the one that wakes Stuart.
I slink into the study and use the flashlight on my phone to look closer at the photograph of the dark-haired man with Sadie.
He’s wearing one of those Carrie Bradshaw name necklaces.
It caught my eye earlier when Stuart and I were in the study.
From where I was standing, all I could see was a glint of gold. Up close, I see it clearly.
Damien
I feel too hot and too cold as I throw myself back into bed. My stomach feels strange. Bad. My stomach feels bad. I can’t tell if it’s cramping or if I’m nauseous.
I mean, it’s hardly earth-shattering. You’d be hard-pressed to call it a surprise. Stuart told me upfront he has an ex he’s not over. It isn’t a secret. He couldn’t have made it any clearer.
Why wouldn’t he have a photograph of him in his house?
And why wouldn’t the guy be so fucking beautiful it makes me want to punch something?