The Minotaur #7
Zair, this big, monstrous beast, lathers soap bubbles, gently washing me with clawed fingers.
He bathes me, and I cry.
That deep hum vibrates through me, calming my nervous system. My heart rate slows. My quick, panting breaths soften to equal intakes.
"Tilt your head, Calista," he mutters softly. And I do, allowing him to wash my hair. I can't help it; the gentleness, with this care feeling better than anything so far, I start crying again.
Sucking in a shuddering breath, my voice cracks, "I'm sorry. I don't know what's wrong with me. I wasn't expecting—"
Any of that. I wasn't expecting any of that. I let go. Completely. And now I feel like I'm not holding on to anything. The tears are still streaming, but Zair pauses washing my hair and lifts me closer, hugging me into his warm body.
His gigantic hands cradle me while he shushes me in soothing tones. "It's okay to let go, Calista. I'm here to hold it all for you. Just let go."
That he sounds so sincere would make Calista from this morning scoff and flail for control, to hold on tighter.
This Calista just doesn't have it in her. So I let go. It feels…
It feels… scary.
But safe.
Zair dries me off and carries me to the living room, dropping me off on the couch. He disappears for a few minutes, and when I hear a closet door open, I realize he's changing the bedsheets.
Since I squirted all over them and they're fucking soaked with sweat and cum, that's probably for the best.
He returns a few minutes later.
Aftercare, I realize. It was in the paperwork.
He digs through my cupboards and makes me a snack. I just watch him, wide-eyed, and a little confused, while this big, hulking beast of a man—a monster—pours me a glass of wine, then joins me on the couch. It's the middle of the night.
"I have to work tomorrow."
"You're not working tomorrow."
"Oh."
He sighs, reaches down and grabs the TV remote, clicking it on, a laugh-track filling the silence of the apartment. "You're the boss, right? You can call out."
He's right, of course, but I never call out. I never do anything like this. Hiring an escort… I wince, the reminder that he's being paid to be here with me making me stiffen in his arms.
As if he can read my thoughts, he adds, "I'm not ready to let you go.
That was… Calista, I..." Zair trails off, shaking his head, like he can't put his thoughts into words.
He's staring again, with that eye-widening look of surprise.
His eyes are big and brown, soft and smiling, a generous emotion filling them.
He tilts his head, his horn gently pressing against the crown of my head.
Smiling, Zair tucks me under his arm, then changes the subject. "Now, we've tried consensual non-consent and breaking in. I was too gentle with you, though, so we could do that again. And you had a few other things on your list."
That was gentle?
Zair flips through the channels, taking sips of wine from my glass, relaxed as can be, and keeps muttering to me, to himself.
"You checked off a lot of boxes, actually. We'll experiment some more with sensory deprivation and impact play. Are you feeling okay, by the way?"
I nod. Words escape me.
I do feel sore, but after crying, honestly, I feel amazing.
Nervous. Shaky. But amazing.
He keeps talking. "We'll get through the list. Don't worry, little mouse. I'll take care of you."
I don't know how I ended up on the couch with a minotaur taking care of me post-sex, casually going through my list of sexual interests, but something tells me it's about to be the best week of my life.
I feel warm and safe and alive in his arms.
Who knows, maybe when it's all over, we'll know enough about each other to make this a regular thing—him breaking in, force fucking me, slapping me around, then pouring me a glass of wine so we can watch some TV.
One could only hope for such a lover.
It's not the early morning light I'm used to, which is the first sign something's different.
It's late sun, the stream hitting low on my bedroom wall. I stretch, the second sign something's off, when my body aches as if I've run a marathon, then a triathlon, followed by one of those boot camp races in the mud.
All that is to say, I can barely move.
My limbs are heavy, but they wake as I stretch and roll, finding the sheets crumpled and cold beside me.
Zair is gone.
I let myself go through the emotions, with the same efficiency as everything else. I hired him; I was a job to him. Of course, he isn't here.
The logical side of my brain doesn't make my heart feel any less bruised. But I can't complain, not even a little. He gave me everything I asked for, and more. Zair took my body and mind places I didn't know I could reach.
My fingers touch my lips, and I find I'm smiling.
It's okay. It'll be okay. Maybe I can hire him again.
I shake my head, sighing, because I can't spend more time with Zair. It was one night—and most of the early morning hours this morning—and I'm already missing him so much.
There's no way I'd survive more time with him, only to wake up to a cold, empty bed.
With effort, I get up, slip on my slippers, grab my robe, and just as I'm covering my naked self, I step into the kitchen.
And there is Zair.
Shirtless.
Wearing my apron.
Cooking breakfast.
He glances up. His face is jarring at first. Brown fur, golden bull-ring nose. Long, sharp teeth.
Kind eyes. High cheekbones, expressive brows.
"The contents of your refrigerator are abysmal, mouse."
I let out a snort. It surprises me so much I slap a hand over my mouth. And then I'm laughing.
He chuckles too, but keeps stirring.
"Don't worry. I will fix this."
He says it with so much conviction, I wonder if he's talking about more than the sad state of my fridge.
. I ask what he's cooking, not able to bring myself to ask what I really want to know—what he's still doing here, and how long can he stay?
—because I really can't bear to hear the truth, that this is all a part of the job, that he's making sure I'm fed and cared for before he leaves.
Before my professional brain starts calculating a tip, I force the cold, impractical Calista down deep where I can't hear her thoughts, and I let Zair cook me breakfast.
We talk about his life and mine. He asks about the office, and if I'm happy with my job. I don't want to know yet if he's happy with his, so I ask other things. He tells me where he lives, where he grew up. I learn he has a younger brother, and his parents live in the mountains.
After a while, I forget all about my insecurities. And it turns into the best morning—late afternoon, then well into the evening—I've ever had. And I have an uncomfortable realization the more time that passes: I really like this minotaur.
I wake at sunrise, like always. Unlike always, with a smile on my face. After wiping the sleep from my eyes, I roll over, then straddle my favorite minotaur, my legs barely reaching the mattress around his massive frame. Zair chuckles, gently slaps my ass, then insists my body needs a break.
"I think I know my own mind," I growl, crossing my arms petulantly, sitting atop his thighs.
Zair smiles, patient as ever. "Mouse, you take care of your mind. I'll take care of your body. And right now, I'm telling you, it needs a break." His thumb gently circles a bruise on my hip. Sighing, because I know he's right but not wanting to admit it, I crawl off of him.
He gets dressed, digging through an overnight bag he brought over a few days ago. It's five days longer than I paid him to be here. I keep expecting him to say goodbye, to tell me it's been fun, but he's got to get back to work.
But Zair's come and gone twice now, with no mention of other jobs. Other women.
He kisses me on the forehead—licks, really, as his mouth is far too long and wide for a proper kiss, but the gesture is sweet all the same—and stands at the foot of the bed, while I'm still naked and waiting for sex we probably shouldn't be having.
"I've got some errands to run, but I'll be back shortly. Do you need anything while I'm out?"
I shake my head, stuffing the demand to know where he's going down deep, so I don't ruin this. I want details. I want to ask why he has to leave, and where he's going, and does he have another client?
And, worst of all—does this feel as big to him as it does to me? Because I feel fucking attached.
But I have iron-will, so I just nod and say I'll see him soon. I gave him the key-code three days ago, he can come and go as he pleases. At the time, I wasn't thinking straight—I let him in too quickly.
He doesn't want to be with me, for real. To vacation at a condo in the mountains, to put up with my work hours and sad refrigerator contents. I know I'm delusional, when that's where my mind goes. Life. Just regular, everyday life.
I'm paying him to be here.
"What's wrong?" he asks before turning to leave. He's wearing a button-up dress shirt tucked into black pants. He could be any other man in my office dressed like that.
"Nothing."
His eyes narrow. "You'll tell me later. For now, take a bath. Your body needs it."
My lips are poised to argue, but there's a sparkle in his eyes.
He wants me to disobey. It almost makes me laugh, but honestly, I do need a bath.
I could use a few hours to regroup, because I can't seem to get enough of this minotaur, and I'll gladly rest my body so we can start all over again tonight, if that's what he has planned.
I draw the bath, and as the water runs, I step into my home office.
I've never taken this much consecutive time off, and I don't feel the least bit guilty about it.
Of course, my control-freak brain still needs to make sure everything's running smoothly at the office, but I feel no compunction about rushing back in.
I log onto my computer, scan email subjects to see what can wait—all of it—when I notice an alert from my bank. When I open the email, I assume I'm misreading it. It has to be a mistake.