Chapter Eleven #2
“Oh, I am, but the problems I have come in much larger forms at present. Grumpy, silver, employer forms, unfortunately. And I’m not sure how much longer I’ll behave, cuz.”
“Z, listen to me. As your older and incredibly wiser cousin…do not fuck the man your father paid to keep you from fucking men.”
“I don’t think that’s what it is…”
“It is.” Her groan fills the silence when I don’t reply. “It’s already happening, isn’t it?”
“Happening feels like a strong word.” I flick my blinker.
“What are you wearing?”
“Huh?” A button on the sun visor opens the gate, and I cast a curious glance at my skirt as I turn down the pristinely paved drive. I wonder how smooth he keeps other things. “A black skirt and a red crop top? I don’t see how that makes a difference.”
“It makes all the difference. It’s happening, whether you admit it or not.”
Maybe she’s right.
I did crop the top.
“What if I don’t want it to happen?” The heat between my thighs screams my deceit, surging like a tidal wave when I pull into the garage and his car is already there.
“Then you need to ask yourself why you aren’t stopping it. You’ve had no problem ending every other relationship.”
“He spanked me a little,” I admit.
“Jesus, Z.”
“It was good, too. I’m talking ginormous hand cupping entire cheek level spankage. He didn’t even get me off, yet all I can think of is how that same hand might feel holding mine.”
“Z?” Her tone softens. “Have you considered you might feel something real for once? Something you could want long term?”
“Have you?”
Neither of us has an answer.
Sweat beads across my forehead, but I won’t stop. I’m one mile into this run, and if I keep pushing, that second and third will feel like nothing.
Then everything.
Adrenaline. Distraction.
I level my breathing and check my form, pulling my shoulders back, and rolling through the feet.
Just push.
Anything to take my mind off Oliver Nashville.
I’m adjusting the ponytail, loose across my back, when I hear the door slam.
Eye-rolling immediately commences.
He didn’t have to slam the door.
He didn’t have to be in the gym at all.
Okay, so it is in his house, and I might have noted the calendar on his fridge has this time slot marked ‘gym,’ but that is so far beside the point, it doesn’t even matter.
Not when he’s standing here shirtless.
His eyes skate down my sweaty form, and I narrow mine directly at him.
In those stupid horny-ass sweatpants, for the love of fuck!
Jer’s right. He so knows.
But Oliver is a big boy, right? A powerful man who makes million-dollar business transactions and secures nannies he doesn’t fuck.
My jealousy stems from…I don’t even know what. My own self? His refusal to see me? The fact I’m in his goddamned house, right under his own roof—
just down the hall from him every night for the foreseeable future, and he has yet to acknowledge the spanking wasn’t the end or the beginning of this?
Or was I just a voyeur’s secret thrill?
I’m no longer running anymore, but sprinting, jamming the speed up to seven point five and increasing the incline by two…six…ten.
I’m running up the mountain.
And a thought occurs to me as I make my stationary ascent.
I am in control of my own destiny.
If I win the adventure show, I won’t need a trust fund to help myself or others. The missing crown charms on my bangles propel me on my run, reminders of who I never want to be.
Selfish.
I don’t compete anymore, my number one rule. Do all things from a place of love, not success.
Still, I wouldn’t need anyone this way.
And I shouldn’t.
Not when I know the last thing they need is me.
Rule number two, you ask? No long term anything. Jobs and relationships alike. And scout’s honor, it’s for the best. It really is me, not them.
Oliver does reps on one of those frippery total body machines, placing and removing weights in a series of events that I don’t pay a lick of attention to, so that’s cool. Before I know it, I’ve hit mile five, all while his ridiculous existence flexes in the mirror behind me.
I towel my face and take a quick selfie for Jeremy.
We’re accountability buddies, mostly so neither of us slacks off too many days in a row, but also because we’re both too full of ourselves not to send pics.
I add a few kissy face emojis before I send it, hoping the smug set of eyes and abs attached to the old grump behind me sees it and misreads.
But why?
I don’t want to make him jealous.
I certainly don’t want to bait him.
Katie’s earlier question hangs in my mind, and my stomach flutters.
Something real.
An arrogant grunt sounds from behind me, and I flick my eyes up to the mirror to see his judgmental grimace. Pity it makes me so wet when it’s rather unattractive compared to the smile I saw at dinner last night.
Fuck, do I want this asshole.
And that makes me so damn mad that I refuse it to be so. I may be unable to control my fantasies around him, but surely, I can control my actions.
I, Lemon Anne Perkins, will abstain.
I just need to distract myself.
But right now, with untouchable Daddy Nashville in front of me, growing haughtier by the minute, sweating, and dripping, and lips moving because…because he’s speaking.
And I have no idea what he said.
I spin away, ignoring him being preferable to admitting I’ve no idea what he said while I memorized the path of travel his sweat took to his groin.
His eyes burn holes in the back of my head like he knows that anyhow, but I remind myself he rejected me, and I snap one more photo for my bestie before stuffing my phone in my bra.
“Why do millennials do that?”
Despite my very worst efforts, I turn back around. Unwelcome relief surges when our eyes meet. “Do what? Have friends? Text? You should try it. Might help those pants of yours loosen a bit.” I kick myself for being this way when his eyes darken, and I love goddamned the shade.
“I don’t need friends.” He nods to my phone but does not adjust his massive cock that’s all I can focus on, quite shamefully I do admit. “I meant selfies.” He clears his throat and draws my eyes back to his with a clear as fuck smirk.
Stupidly huge cock.
“People your age are always snapping pictures of themselves like anyone cares.”
He isn’t that much older than me, forty-five to my twenty-eight, but in technological years, that’s an era.
I could tell him the truth, that it’s to guilt Jeremy into working out today per the blood oath we took over pinkies last month, or for my own health, which is also not a lie.
Either of those answers would be better than pushing my cleavage to smothering heights and licking my lips like I might drop to my knees and blow Oliver Nashville right where we stand. I think he believes it too, as his breath draws in on a swift inhale and steel blue eyes search mine.
I’m baiting him.
And what’s worse is Katie’s right. I have no desire to stop myself.
“Selfies are for sugar daddies.” I snap my thong against my flesh. “The prettier the panties, the sweatier the selfie. Gosh,” I towel my brow, “I’m practically drenched today.”
Oliver’s eyes never leave my body as I strut out of the gym and slam the door behind me.
Whether I like it or not, I’m a hopeless ho.
And I think I’m an olive lover, too.
Joy.