Chapter 22
?
This is…just a little bit…wonderful.
Mirabelle
Warm. Cozy. Safe.
Involuntarily, I snuggle as the morning hour coaxes me awake.
Then, memories from last night send a jolt through me.
My eyes snap open to find chest. Hard. Hot. Man. Chest.
My throat closes as I slowly lift my attention toward…
My boss. Mr. Anders. Damion.
I gulp as his tired eyes find mine, and breath leaves him, lowering the chest…
that has become my pillow. Coarse, he mutters, “You’re a cuddler.
” He wets his lips, adjusts Macaroon—who is settled under the arm that is decidedly not around my body—and shakes his head.
“Poor abandoned little piggy.” He drags his thumb across Macaroon’s pink head.
“Three minutes after I lay down, you gravitated toward the fresh meat, leaving him to face the bitter cold alone. Cruel, cruel, cruel.” His fingers trickle through my hair as I take in this… situation.
I am nestled beneath the sheets and comforters; Damion is on top of them with a large fluffy throw blanket. He’s in the center of the bed. I am clinging to him. He is hugging my stuffed animal and looking like he hasn’t slept the whole night.
Absently, he sets Macaroon on the nightstand beside him, then—
My heart lurches as he secures my hands in his, locks our fingers, and plants them above my head as he rolls over me. Caged between his knees, I find it tremendously difficult to breathe.
“You bedshare very well,” he praises, the words practically a growl. “You’re so still. You latched on, then didn’t move the whole night.” His mouth settles by my ear. “I’d know. I was up for all of it.”
A shudder rocks me. “I-I’m sorry.”
He licks, nips, nibbles.
I crumple into nothingness.
“That’s not really how you’re supposed to take a compliment, Mirabelle.” He kisses my cheek. “Say thank you.”
Heart settling in my throat, I whisper, “Thank you.”
The pounds vibrate in my skull, a tempo beneath his very low, very perfect, “Good girl.”
I fear I no longer possess bones, on account of him having just melted them.
Casual as can be, he drags his great big self off me, stands, tucks Macaroon back under his arm, and yawns as he trudges to the bathroom. “I have an extra toothbrush.” He flicks the bathroom light on. “Do you think one of my shirts would fit you like a dress?”
“H-huh?” I test my ability to get up. I cannot. “I…I live in the backyard.”
His gaze hits me, all the way from the bathroom, in front of the sink, as he puts toothpaste on his toothbrush. “That’s so far.”
It…isn’t?
Stuffing his toothbrush in his mouth, he mumbles, “It’d be cruel to force you to do that lengthy and expansive walk of shame this early in the morning…
Best that you use my extra toothbrush…and maybe my shampoo…
and then my clothes. I’ll have to see about getting you your things when I have a moment later, a break from work maybe.
” He brushes for a bit, then spits, rinses, puts his brush back in the holder, and faces me, petting Macaroon as pity tilts his brows. “Face it, Mirabelle…you’re stuck here.”
I’m…
I manage to sit up on my shaky elbows. “But…it’s…the backyard.”
“Far,” he asserts, tuts, shakes his head. “And with your sweet little bare feet?”
I flush, deeply reminded what he did to one of my sweet little bare feet last night.
He hooks a finger at me, and that somehow gets my bones back in order.
Forcing myself to leave the bed and step carefully up to him, I fidget with the hem of my night shorts and peek up at his severe expression. “Y-yes?”
Lowering himself, he looks me dead in the eyes and grits, “It is such a shame that you live so far away and are forced to stay here and wear my clothes and smell like me. What. A. Shame.”
I think I understand.
I, also, think I’m crimson.
Mumbling about how much of a shame it is that I live miles upon miles away, Damion crosses his bedroom and makes his bed, tucking Macaroon between the two main pillows as though my little pig lives there now.
I stare at his spotted face, trying not to feel as though he has been stolen, and bristle when Damion kisses the top of his head.
When Damion’s eyes hit me, I flinch and move my fidgeting behind me, to the hem of my camisole.
“You aren’t moving,” he says.
Yes…because maybe if I don’t move…he won’t be able to see me.
Busting that theory, he heads into his closet and procures a giant black long-sleeve t-shirt, that he then shoves my way with confidence.
I look at it. Then up at him.
He bounces it a bit. “Go on.”
Hesitant, I reach for the soft material and find his eyes again.
“Towels are in the closet beside the standing shower. The longer you dilly-dally, the more you run the risk of missing breakfast time.”
I gulp. I would never miss breakfast time. But… I look at his shirt. “D-Damion?”
Warm, but lethal, he murmurs, “Yes, precious?”
“I-I—” I find myself without basic motor skills. Oh dear… “I don’t have a…a…” I whisper, “…a br—”
“Aware,” he states, eyes darkening. Cutting his attention toward a desk, he softens his tone.
“I am very aware of the state of your missing undergarments, Mirabelle.” Striding to the desk, he closes a book atop it.
“Put that night shirt of yours back on after you shower. Put my shirt on over it. That’ll have to do.
” Tucking the leatherbound book under his arm, he says, “See you at breakfast.”
Then, he leaves.
I stare at his closed door, clutching the fabric of his shirt against my chest, for a long time. Then I move my attention to Macaroon. On his bed. Sitting there. Pretty.
It would be very easy to shake myself out of this idiocy, grab my pig, and abscond with him back to my house and my room and my clothes…
Very easy…so very, very easy…
So, really, I have no clue why I dip my chin, turn, and enter the bathroom instead.
?
“You know,” Damion mutters, stacking pancakes on the plate in front of me, “it’s really bothered me that you’ve not once eaten with me.
” He cuts what might be an entire tablespoon of butter off a stick and lays it atop my pancake stack.
Next, he pops the cap on a bottle of pure maple syrup and begins drowning the cakes, while holding my gaze, firmly.
“Con. Big con. Hate it. Despise it, really.”
I gulp, twisting my hands in his shirt, which I’m wearing, as I sit at the kitchen table and watch a moat of syrup appear in the deep-dish plate of pancakes that I did not make.
Even though meals are my job. A job I am paid very well to do.
A job with a work agreement that outlines my specific tasks and nowhere on it says, sleep with boss.
My toes curl as I shift in my seat.
The cap snapping back into place makes me jump before the legs of the chair beside me being slid across the tile floor makes me wince.
Damion drops heavily onto the wood.
I squeeze my eyes shut. “I…I’m so sorry. I—” I swallow. “—I don’t know what came over me. It won’t happen again. I’ll… I’ll be good.”
He arches a brow and snatches the fork from my place setting before sawing into the stack of pancakes and perching a morsel upon the prongs. “You’ll be good?”
Fervently, I nod.
“You are good, Mirabelle.” He holds the dripping bite up, above the plate. “Eat.”
My lips part as I lean forward and obey.
“See?” he murmurs. “Obedient.” His gaze skates over me, in his shirt. “Doing exactly as you’re told.” He wets his lips. “Good.”
Heat floods me, and I have never been more attracted to a man in my life.
He cuts another piece and stuffs it in his own mouth, using the same fork.
Yeah.
Yeah.
I have never been this attracted to a man before. Never.
Not even last night.
Oh my stars and stripes.
Parched, I watch him chew, swallow, cut another piece.
Dangling it for me, he says, “Why are you getting so high off this, Mirabelle?”
I freeze with my mouth open for the pancake.
Confident and attentive, he sits there, beside me, head propped in his palm.
Unsmiling. Severe. Steady. Possibly angry…
but I don’t think so. I don’t think so, because he was petting my stuffed pig less than an hour ago and going on about how veryyy farrr away I lived.
He woke me up and threw me into this whirlwind of I am desperate to have you as speckled by a slew of jokes.
And now he’s being very clear with his expectations. And I… I am eating it up.
I can’t even put into words what is rampaging through my brain and body right now.
I was helpless last night.
I was stupid.
I was vulnerable.
He could have done anything to me, but he didn’t. He didn’t take advantage of me. He stayed with me—atop the comforter of his own bed.
He bounces the fork, and I return my attention to it before I accept the bite from the same prongs he just used. Something very near predatory glints in his eye. “Answer me,” he commands, low, steady, rough. “Why are you getting so high off this, Mirabelle?”
Reaching for a napkin, I drop my gaze off him and very primly…shrug.
He hums around another forkful for himself. “I want you to do your very best to put that answer into words, precious.”
Oh, that’s easy. I know that one. I dab my lips and say, “I don’t know.” Then I smile. Politely. And sweetly. And possibly innocently, too, but maybe recent events have robbed me of the ability. Who can say?
Damion puffs a laugh. “Menace.”
“Am I?”
“Thoroughly.” He prepares another bite for me.
I fold my hands back together in my lap. “Are we…”
“Hm?”
I touch my thumbs together. “This was my job. I behaved…poorly last night. You weren’t able to sleep. Are you not upset?”
“Livid.”
My stomach drops. I’ve misunderstood. He is mad. He’s furious. Of course he would be. I shirked my responsibilities. I inconvenienced him. I—
“With myself.”
I choke on my thoughts. “Your…self?”