Chapter 10 - Izabel
One morning, I walk into my room and see an iPad on my bed. My heart leaps with excitement. Oddly, my first thought isn’t oh, now I can contact people! It’s oh, yay, I can draw again! Drawing has been an escape for me. It is an incredibly freeing form of self-expression.
Of course, it only takes a few more seconds of processing to realize I can contact someone on it.
Snatching it off my bed, I realize it isn’t just any iPad, it’s my iPad, and I stare at it in confusion. Did he go and fetch this for me? Why?
I hurriedly start it up and unlock it, then scroll immediately to WhatsApp. But there's no connection. The SIM card has been removed, and for some reason, the Wi-Fi isn’t working, not even trying to connect. There is some kind of block on it that I’m not savvy enough to understand.
Oddly, I’m not that disappointed, because how could I expect him to hand me a direct method of escape? That is something I will need to find myself. But in the meantime, he has given me the freedom to draw again.
“I thought you might want to carry on with your art,” he says, making me jump as he leans against the door frame with his arms folded over his chest.
“You know I like to draw?” I ask, holding up the iPad.
“I wouldn’t have been a very good host if I didn’t know at least a little bit about you,” he muses.
“Host,” I scoff, shaking my head. “Well, thank you. I appreciate this. Pity it can’t connect to anything,” I grin.
He chuckles. Dammit, I love it when he chuckles like that. It’s a sound I’ve started to really enjoy.
“A pity indeed. I’m headed back to the gallery if you want to join me. I need three new pieces for the west wing of the house. Either you’re going to choose the ones you like, or I’m going to buy some random hideous pieces and swap them with the artwork right outside your room.”
“You wouldn’t,” I sass, knowing he values art too much to do that.
“Try me, Pixie,” he says, turning away as though he’s leaving.
“Wait! I’ll come with. I already know which ones I would choose.”
“I know. You probably knew the moment you set your eyes on the pieces you wanted,” he laughs, still walking away from me as I race to put my shoes on and run after him before he leaves without me.
“Aren’t you worried about going back to the gallery? That someone might be there again?” I ask when we’re in the car and on the way.
“No, I have security teams scouting ahead of us, and they’ll watch the perimeter while we’re inside. I should have done it the first time.”
The visit to the gallery is more relaxed this time. I’m not entirely focused on escaping, and I rather enjoy selecting and buying the art with him.
They arrange for it to be delivered the same day, and my stomach flutters with excitement.
“Have you ever bought art before?” he asks.
“I’ve wanted to, but there isn’t much point if I don’t have somewhere permanent to hang it.
So, I set it aside for one day when I have a home I feel is a real home that I’m not going to get bored of or have to leave when my brother comes looking for me and tries to get me to go back again,” I explain.
“That makes sense.”
“I want this one right outside my room. And I think this one should go in the living room above the fireplace,” I say thoughtfully.
“You want me to move the Banksy?” he asks, shocked.
“Yes, the Banksy should be in the dining room. It’s bold and a brilliant conversation piece for when you host dinner parties.”
“Since when am I going to be hosting dinner parties?” he scoffs, laughing.
“Well, you should at least be prepared for it,” I grin. “Bold art belongs where people can talk about it.”
“But the living room would also technically be a place where guests would hang out,” he argues.
“Yes, but the living room is too comfortable for a Banksy.”
He frowns, but a slight smile creeps to the corner of his mouth upward, and one dimple appears on his cheek. “Strangely, and I’m not sure how or why, but that makes sense,” he says, surprised.
“I know,” I sass.
***
Anton isn’t there when the guards usher the gallery's delivery people into the house. I’m too excited to go figure out where he is.
Technically, he should be resting, as his wound is still healing, and it gives me all the freedom in the world to get the guys to move paintings around to my heart’s content.
For over an hour, I am happily rearranging things and putting them where I feel they are better suited.
The gallery guys leave, and I stand smiling up at the new painting over the fireplace. “It looks good,” I say, talking to myself.
Speaking out loud to no one at all makes me realize that Anton would normally be hovering over my shoulder, and I have barely seen him all afternoon.
Curious and a little worried, I go in search of him.
He’s not in his room. He’s not in the kitchen, the office, or the library.
It takes me a while to search each floor until I reach the top floor and finally hear music coming from the gym.
Walking into the open space, I find Anton, shirtless, wearing black sweatpants, leaning over a bench as he tries to stretch his quads, but there is a grimace of pain lining his face, and he’s clearly uncomfortable.
However, that isn’t the only thing I notice.
At first my eyes innocently trace down his body to the bandage on his side, wondering if he should be in the gym yet when it’s not healed.
But as they move, I notice that his body is coated in a light sheen of sweat, making him glisten and accentuating each muscle.
He stands up with his back to me and raises his arms above his head, rotating his shoulder cuff and stretching his neck to the side. He grunts, then groans, and the sounds are borderline erotic, flooding heat between my legs as I stand there, suddenly very aware of how turned on I am.
A bead of sweat runs down the center of his back, and my eyes follow it until it soaks into the waistband of his pants.
Dammit, I should not be perving like this.
But it’s impossible to look away. I’ve never seen anything so devilishly masculine in my life, and my hormones are now fully raging as I hesitantly try to work out if I should bolt out of here before he discovers me or make some kind of noise to alert him that I just arrived.
But instead of doing either of those things, I continue to watch him like a total pervert.
Anton walks over to the weights and lifts them, gingerly testing which don't hurt his side too much. He grunts again, and honey soaks into my panties.
My cheeks begin to flush with heat, and I’m seconds from fleeing when my sneaker catches on the gym floor and makes a high, embarrassing squeaking sound.
He looks up, and immediately a massive smile spreads over his face.
“Hello, Pixie, enjoying the show?” he teases.
“I wasn’t watching!” I blurt out.
“Really? Are you lost, then? Because you’re just standing there looking a little lost.” His smile is so mischievous that it isn’t helping any of the inappropriate thoughts spinning through my mind.
“I was…” I glance down at what I’m wearing. Black leggings. Sneakers. A hoodie. “I was coming to the gym and then trying to figure out if I would disturb you or not,” I stammer quickly.
The perfect cover.
“Mm. Well, you won’t disturb me. There is plenty of space,” he gestures around.
“Weights or cardio?” he asks.
“Um, a warmup first, then weights.” I speak with confidence as I walk over to the mats where I’ve done stretches before. It’s not like it’s my first time in his gym, but I’ve never been here with him here, too, and the space feels a hundred times smaller now.
It’s strange how I've been in gyms all over the place. Different faces, different equipment. It never really mattered to me; I would just dive in and enjoy it. But this, right now, is the first time I have ever felt self-conscious about it.
I can feel his eyes burning into my back as I bend down to start my usual stretch routine.
My movements are stiff and awkward.
Nothing I do takes away from the fact that he is in the same room as me, shirtless, sweating, looking far too manly…and I am struggling to act normal about it.
I stand up and realize he has wandered closer, bringing his chosen weights to the mirror to work out next to me in the stretching area.
My cheeks burn hotter and I become even more awkward.
“You make that look easy,” he says, confirming that he is watching my every move as I lower myself down to move into the splits.
“Everything is easy when you do it enough times,” I reply.
I close my eyes, trying to block him out as I finish my routine. It’s not working. He’s larger than life, and every time I speak a peek at him, he’s still watching and cheekily grins at me.
When my stretches are done, I let out a little huff of annoyance. If I could escape this horrible moment, I would run right out of this gym and hide, but then he would know he has some kind of power of me or that I never had any intention of working out in the first place.
Ugh.
Just do thirty minutes of weights and then you can escape.
Too focused on my self-consciousness, I trip over the weight he left on the floor near the stretch area, and I fall flat on my face.
In all my years of working out, in all the moments in all the hours, I have never embarrassed myself quite like this.
Groaning in pain, I roll from my stomach to my back, wondering which part of me hurts more. My wrist, my knees, my twisted ankle, or my ego.
My cheeks are so red-hot now, my face is burning.
Anton is at my side in a matter of seconds, kneeling next to me. He wraps his hand around my waist and pulls me into a sitting position.
“Are you okay? That was a really hard fall!” he says, running his hands over me to check that I'm okay. But his touch is doing other things to me, and I desperately need to escape.
“No, I’m fine, totally fine,” I groan, shifting so I can stand up.
But as soon as I put weight on my ankle, I wince and sit back down again.
“Just stay put,” he demands. “Give yourself a second. There isn’t anywhere to rush off to. I think you fell harder than you realize,” he says sternly. To my horror, he lifts my ankle in his hands and sets it on his lap, then gently starts to massage and carefully rotate it.
It feels incredible.
I groan in relief, then snap my lips closed, horrified at how erotic it sounded.
Anton is smiling, his eyes narrowed, and thankfully, he’s looking down at my ankle. But it’s clear from his expression that he heard my inappropriate moan loud and clear.
“Feel okay?” he asks, knowing damn well it does.
“Yep!” I snap, holding my breath now to stop myself from making any more embarrassing sounds.
But before I know it, with his hands traveling so gently over my ankle and moving up my leg a little, I’ve forgotten to hold my breath, and another, softer moan slips from my mouth.
This time, the sound I’ve made seems to affect him, and he shifts a little, clearing his throat as his hands hesitate in their movement.
When he glances at me, and our eyes lock, the tension between us snaps like electricity, tripling in intensity.
My lips part as I take a soft breath, desperately trying to get control of myself, while inside, my thoughts are screaming.
His hand pauses, and his eyes darken. I bite my lower lip.
“Is it okay?” he asks, a husky whisper.
“Is what okay?” I murmur, caught in the stormy color of his eyes.
“Your...uh…your ankle,” he says.
“Oh, shit, yes, um, it’s totally fine. Thanks for the massage.
I’m going to go get some ice. I think I’ll just put it up for a bit and put ice on it, that’s the best thing.
” Words won’t stop coming out of my mouth as I tug my ankle out of his hands and stagger to my feet.
It hurts a little, but I ignore it as I limp away, not daring to turn around and look at him, because I’m so embarrassed I want to disappear.
He doesn’t try to stop me, thank goodness. I think I would have just pretended not to hear him if he did. It’s a dangerous game to be playing, being so attracted to the man you’re trying to escape.
I don’t stop moving until I’m safely in my room with the door closed.
My ankle isn’t hurting as much now after the brief, though intense, massage and a little careful walking on it. I’ll survive. But my dignity has apparently gone out the window along with my self-control.