Chapter 8
Florian
The morning after my boss’s nightmare, he’s embarrassed to look at me.
For a man like him showing any weakness is a shame.
I pretend not to notice that he’s even quieter than usual as I cook some eggs.
It felt weird, holding him so tenderly last night.
The fact that he allowed it was even weirder.
His torso felt like a barrel of iron. The evidence of his power should scare me: I’ve been indentured to a bad-tempered man with the strength of a machine who hates me.
But, on the other hand, he let me stay with him.
We slept in the same bed until morning. When I woke up he’d disappeared, but he hadn’t kicked me out.
I’m not sure what that means. If anything.
If I’m going to be stuck here for two years, it’ll be easier if I can get on Grimes’ good side.
Last night was a start. Slipping into bed with him wasn’t a tactic: I did feel sorry for him.
His nightmare screams burst through the wall between our rooms, waking me.
His suffering was real, and I really wanted to comfort him.
But it gave me an idea. Maybe I should try to get closer to him.
He didn’t push me out of bed. He even let me put my arm around him.
He didn’t seem totally disgusted by touching me.
Maybe I can work on that angle. I’m not good at many things, but seduction is one of them.
He’s wearing his glasses for reading right now, scowling at something in the newspaper. The glasses make him look handsome in a different way than usual. Still strong and silent, but more reflective, measured. Like a thinking man. I like how they look on him.
I wonder if I could make them steam up.
“Boss, have you ever had a valet?” I say.
He looks surprised, as if that’s the last thing he expected me to say, but recovers and snorts with disdain.
“What do you think?” he says. “Do I look like I have?”
I step closer. Sashay closer, if you will.
“I could be your valet,” I say. “It’d make you feel like a fine gentlemen.”
He scoffs, takes a step back. “I feel fine enough already, thank you.”
“I could help you dress and… all that.”
“You won’t be helping me dress, Florian,” he says.
“I don’t mean like underwear and stuff. Just the final touches.”
“What final touches?” He glances down at himself. “It’s pretty easy to put on my cloak.”
“Yeah, about that,” I say. “You still haven’t told me why you wear that cloak every day.”
“Well spotted.”
“You aren’t planning to?”
“Nope.” He sits down on a chair and grabs his work boots, ready to put them on, like he’s bored by the direction of the conversation.
“Wait,” I say. “Let me show you what’s it’s like to have a valet. Let me put those on for you.”
“It’s really not necessary,” he says. He glances at me quickly. “I suppose you had a valet back in Rhennes?”
“Of course. A great guy. He always made sure I looked my absolute best before a night out.”
“A deeply meaningful calling,” Grimes mutters.
“I thought so,” I say cheerfully, ignoring the sarcasm.
Grimes grumbles under his breath. I can’t even make out the words. Probably something about me being annoying. He sounds like a mini thunderstorm. Though it means he’s exasperated with me, the sound itself isn’t unpleasant. It’s so deep and low and masculine, rumbling from the very center of him.
I drop softly to my knees and look up at him. His eyes get wide, his face still.
“Now, just let me get you out of these shoes,” I say.
I unlace them ever so slowly, holding his gaze, and all the while his powerful body gets stiller and stiller.
I thought he might try to back away, stand up and tell me to stop being silly, but he stays where he is.
It’s as though he’s under a spell. I lift his feet, one at a time, to take off his shoes.
Then I put on the work boots and lace them up for him, my hands soft and careful.
The whole time the silence in the room gets louder and Grimes sits so still it’s as though he hardly dares to breathe.
When I’m done I rock back on my heels and smile at him.
“There, Boss,” I say. “How do you like having a valet?”
“It’s… it’s all right.”
His throat sounds dry and his voice has a breathy note. Like he’s been walking in the desert all day without a drink.
I toss my hair over my shoulder, still on my knees in front of him. “And while I’m down here—”
“Florian, jokes like that are unacceptable.” His voice is louder now, real anger breaking through.
I scoot back on my heels and grab a can of boot polish from the side table.
“I was only going to say I might as well polish the boots for you.” I give him a reproachful look. “What did you think I was going to say?”
He runs a hand under his hood as though he’s feeling the heat. “Nothing,” he lies. “What the hell is the point of polishing work boots when I’m about to go outside and dig in the dirty ground anyway?”
“Well, I guess it’s not exactly… practical,” I say, running the cloth through my fingers as his eyes follow the movement. “But it’s nice to be spoiled every now and then.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he growls. “If you must.”
His stare is pure dark challenge now. He’s annoyed with me, and himself.
He wants to prove that I’m not turning him on.
But he’s proving nothing. I see my effect on him in those strained eyes.
I start to polish the left boot with slow, slow, teasing circles.
I whistle softly to myself, knowing his eyes are on my lips even though I’m not looking up.
As I rub the cloth into the old, cracked leather I imagine I’m massaging my boss’s tense, angry shoulders, easing out the kinks and knots, making him putty in my hands.
His breath gets lighter. Is he imagining the same thing? I wish I could read his thoughts.
“Okay, Boss?” I whisper.
No answer. I look up. His eyes are fixed on me, and they’re burning up.
His hands are clamped on the arms of the chair.
That look on his face tells no lies. He wants me.
I reach up and touch his knee, waiting for an invitation to do more.
His breath catches. Then he leaps out of the chair so fast I almost tumble over backwards.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he shouts.
I shrink back.
“N-nothing,” I stutter. “Sorry. I thought… I thought you were giving me the signal.”
“The signal? What signal?”
I can’t even look at him. “You... you know.”
I’m so embarrassed. I don’t usually misread that badly. I could’ve sworn he wanted me to go farther. Especially after our moment of connection last night as he let me share his bed. It felt as though he almost liked me, for once. Or, at least, like he hated me a little less.
“Get up, right now,” he barks.
I scramble to my feet. He backs away like I’m contagious. My face and neck are flaming. I’m utterly humiliated.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I really thought… after last night—”
“Shut up,” he grates out. “Just stop talking. Some fucking valet you are.” He shakes his head, disgusted. “Outside, now.”
He grabs my hat from the patched sofa and throws it at me.
His boots are still uneven, one polished and one not.
He leads the way to the foundations in silence.
I sneak glances at him, starting to wonder if he’s only playing at being angry.
In my shock, am I taking this way too seriously?
He was definitely turned on by the valet act.
If he’d wanted to, he could’ve refused it, but he wanted me kneeling in front of him.
So maybe I just went a little too far, and he has to put me back in my place.
Maybe this is going to be a fun “punishment”.
“Sit there,” he growls.
He points to the shade of a tree. Embarrassed as I am, his dominant tone is demanding my attention. My body begins to tingle with heat… and hope. But as I watch, he starts to dig, ignoring me completely, driving the spade hard into the earth over and over as though he’s mad at the ground.
“You want me to just sit here,” I check.
“Yes. And quietly. Think about what you did.”
Is there a grin on his face? Hard to tell from this angle, past the hood. Maybe.
“Oh, I’m thinking about it,” I say.
My cock firms starts to firm, enjoying being ordered around as much as I do, starts to press against my tight breeches. Boss looks over at me. His eyes rake over my erection and he scowls.
“Florian, when I look at you next, that better be gone.”
He nods in the general direction of my crotch. Shit. I don’t think he’s being playful. He’s really pissed. I assume he means the hard-on should be gone, not the entire goods. But still.
“Did I really misread you earlier?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says, and turns his back on me.
So this is a real punishment? Not for fun. I’m so deflated and embarrassed, it doesn’t take long for the evidence of my dirty thoughts to disappear
“Better,” Boss grunts, his eyes flitting over the front of my breeches.
“So I guess you want me to start work?” I say sulkily.
“Not yet. Just sit there and be quiet.”
So I watch him dig. Every so often he looks over at me to check I haven’t moved. This is ridiculous… and boring. I’m not used to sitting in silence, doing absolutely nothing. Finally he comes over and looms over me.
“I’ve been punished enough,” I say plaintively.
“Punished? You’ve been sitting here in the shade while I’ve been working. You can’t even keep quiet for ten minutes without throwing a tantrum?” He wipes his sweaty face with his sleeve.
I lapse into silence. Of course I can stay quiet for ten minutes.
It’s not the silence that bothers me, it’s the knowledge that Grimes is angry at me, his rage simmering away in his head and there’s absolutely nothing I can do about it.
It brings me right back to my father’s house, his endless sulks, never knowing what he was thinking, but knowing it was something bad about me.
Wondering what would be the outcome when he finally emerged from his morose mood.
Being locked in my room, or subjected to a long lecture about my many faults, or both.
Grimes lets out a sigh. “All right. On your feet and start digging," he says.
“Just a moment. I need to warm up.”
I stretch my hands way up over my head. Then I turn over onto my belly, place my hands flat on the ground and stretch out my spine luxuriously.
“Now what the hell are you doing?” Grimes demands.
“Stretching exercises. I don’t want to pull something by starting to dig right after my cruel boss made me sit still for so long.”
“Florian, it was ten minutes,” he says.
I grin up at him. Now I know he’s not too mad, I feel like playing with him again.
“Really? Felt like longer,” I say. “Anyway, we should be warming up every day before we start work. I’ve been meaning to mention it.”
This much is true. He should look after that powerhouse body of his. It deserves to be treated with more respect.
He glares down at me, hands on his hips. “It really is impossible to put you down, isn’t it?”
“Yep.” I move into another pose, feeling the stretch all the way down my spine and the backs of my legs. “This feels great. You should join me.”
“I don’t need stretching exercises,” he scoffs.
So he says, even as his gaze follows my movements with hunger.
Apparently even annoyed with me, he can’t help noticing my ass.
I can’t figure him out. When I made a move, he jumped back like I bit him.
But now, his desire is obvious. Why does he keep fighting it?
Maybe he doesn’t believe in messing around with servants.
Or maybe it’s his dislike of me that holds him back.
“Just give them a try,” I coax. “Big muscles are great, but there’s a lot to recommend flexibility too.” I put a little extra arch into my back, sticking my butt out more.
“Flexibility,” he repeats, sounding a bit dazed.
“Yep. Just stretch your back all the way out like this.” I place my hands on the ground and stick my ass up as high as it can go. “You see cats do this all the time.”
“How did I know you’d admire the lifestyle of cats?” he says, rolling his eyes.
“Of course. They’re aloof, badass, they do what they please, they sleep half the day, and everyone always wants to snuggle with them. And most important, they always land on their feet. What’s not to aspire to?”
He shakes his head, at a loss for words.
“Come on, give the stretches a try. It’s good for keeping you limber.” I look up at him. “Especially at your age.”
He scowls down at me, his arms folded. “Florian, do you know something?”
“No.”
“Sometimes I really want to give you a smack around the ear.”
I laugh out loud. “Well, I know that. But you never would.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“You’re much too honorable.”
That throws him. He opens his mouth to answer and decides against it.
His hand goes up to scratch under his hood.
Something flickers behind his eyes. I don’t know why that got to him so much.
It’s obvious I’m right. No matter how much I annoy him, he’s never laid a hand on me.
After a moment of awkward silence, he drops to the ground beside me.
“Show me these exercises,” he says, “before my decrepit frame crumbles to dust before your youthful eyes.”
“That’s the spirit. It’s never too late to get in shape.”
He lifts his huge heavyweight boxer’s hand and bats me on the side of the head, so lightly. I don’t flinch.
“You were serious,” he says, confusion in his eyes. “You trust me.”