11. Ruby
“Fuck, you’re so tight, darling,” James growls, holding my hips in a vice-like grip, pounding into me from beneath. My legs tremble and I hide my face in the crook of his neck, already so close to —
The fire alarm rips me out of my dream, and I want to kill someone. A morning show is playing on my TV, which means that it’s too goddamn early to be up. Being awake at this hour is irritating in itself, but if I have to listen to the shrill beep, beep, beep, for another two minutes, I’ll start throwing things.
“James,” I shout downstairs and the response is something that sounds like he’s handling dishes in a panic. “Turn that fucking alarm off!”
James is hot and I really want him, especially after last night, but there are boundaries. And waking me up like this crosses one of them.
I throw my blanket to the side, get out of my bed, and stomp over to the bathroom. I’m so wet that I almost feel it dripping down my thighs as I stand, my pajama pants sticking to my pussy that’s begging for attention.
For James, to be honest, but I fear that this will take a bit more time.
I get out of my pajamas before hopping into the shower and use the few minutes to calm down. After I put on fresh clothes, I head downstairs to confront James.
My usual approach would be loud and mean, but I still want something from him, and I doubt that yelling would help me reach my goal. Apart from that, I made it some kind of New Year”s resolution to work on being more calm and forgiving. So why not start with that right now? In May.
Better late than never, I think as I walk down the stairs.
I cough as I walk through a cloud of smoke. Yes, definitely time to have a kitchen intervention.
“James,” I sigh as I climb onto one of the bar stools. My feet dangle from the chair and I can’t stand that I feel like a five-year-old when I sit on them.
“If you hate this job so much, you can just quit. I mean, I would be sad, yes, but there’s no reason to burn the house down.”
He walks over to the open patio doors, trying to get more smoke out by waving a dish towel. He glares at me from over there while I pull the black, undefinable block on the kitchen counter closer to me. It looks faintly like lasagna. Maybe he took a flight to Italy while I was asleep and brought back a souvenir straight from Pompeii.
“It’s the kitchen,” he says as the smoke slowly clears. “No matter what I do, everything starts to burn sooner or later.”
The confusion in his eyes is heartwarming. It makes me forget I came down here to lecture him.
I fought my own war with the fancy kitchen appliances my father insisted on buying when he built this house. He couldn’t cook a thing, even if his life depended on it, but somehow, it was important to him to buy the most expensive, top-notch stuff for a kitchen that no one used most of the time.
After I burned through a concerning amount of food, I had it figured out. I feel sorry for James because I know exactly how he must feel right now. Nothing like a crying breakdown in the middle of the kitchen because you were excited for your dinner, only to see that it turned into a block of coal because you weren’t looking for a minute.
“I can cook us dinner tonight,” I offer. “But you have to eat with me.”
He hesitates, probably trying to figure out if a proper meal is worth the hassle.
“You like lasagna?” I ask, unable to keep myself from delivering that, admittedly, low blow, especially not when the burnt monstrosity on the counter forces me to bring it up.
He sighs while picking the thing up.
“Lasagna is fine,” he says as his attempt lands in the trash. Along with the pan, because the thing looks worse than the frying pan I cleaned a few days ago.
Eating dinner with James could be an excellent opportunity to get closer to him, and apart from that, food is the way to a man’s heart. Or so I heard. It’s the way to mine, that much is clear. And if James is happy with his dinner, I have another thing he wants from me, which is kind of manipulative when I put it like that.
“You think you’ll survive until 7?” I ask with a yawn as I jump down from the bar stool. He nods and I give him a thumbs up as I walk back upstairs to get another hour or two of sleep in. And to maybe finish my dream, because I feel like I’m in danger of jumping on James if I don’t release a bit of that tension.
A few hours later, I’m back in the living room. The sleeping part worked fine, but the releasing tension one did not work at all. I’m unable to get the job done, which is something I’ve never struggled with.
My pussy is on strike, demanding James, and she’s not open for discussion. Wonderful.
I look through the fridge and the pantry to gather all the ingredients I need. I also have to check if there’s enough meat left after James’ failed attempt. If I was cooking for myself only, it would be enough, but I’m pretty sure that I have to double my usual recipe. There is no way that he sustains his body on 2000 calories a day and I decide to make a separate lasagna just for him.
I don’t want to risk not getting anything, and apart from that, I can freeze any leftovers for him to reheat when he’s getting hungry. Maybe I should reheat them for him, because if I have to listen to that fire alarm one more time, I’m going to take care of it with a baseball bat.
The next grocery delivery is supposed to come in two days and for a second, I think about asking James to drive to the supermarket with me. Grocery shopping with him must be fun, but it’s probably better to save this for another occasion.
Instead, I order the ground beef I need and a few other things. Mainly snacks for James and ice cream for dessert.
I wonder if he knows that I’m the one who orders all those sweets for him and that it isn’t some kind of pleasant coincidence that the grocery deliveries look like we’re hosting birthday parties for kids. Kids who also use protein powder and smoke too much.
While I wait for the groceries to arrive, I chop up onions, celery, and carrots and throw them into a big pot. Not even half an hour after I placed my order, the doorbell rings and there is a reason I never have to wait long for my deliveries.
I tip generously, not only because it gets me my stuff faster, but because I also enjoy handing out my father’s money to people who deserve it more than he does.
The smell of roasting vegetables hits my nose and I dash back to the kitchen with the bags in my hands before something burns. I can’t go around and laugh at James for his cooking skills and then mess up during the first step of my recipe.
I put the groceries away and turn the temperature down slightly before I add the meat. I’m glad that I decided on a huge pot. No way this would have fit in the one I normally use. As soon as the meat is nicely browned, I pour broth and red wine into the pot.
A bit of red wine also ends up in a glass, because I deserve it after being nice enough to cook dinner.
The ragu needs to simmer for a while, so I take my glass of wine and walk over to the living room. James is nowhere to be seen, and I figure he must be in the home gym or in his room taking a nap.
The couch is a mess, and it’s obvious that he slept down here last night. The remote is squished between the cushions and I ask myself if he deliberately tried to hide it from me. A relaxed sigh leaves me as I flop down on the couch.
I’m getting old.
Since James isn’t down here to complain about my taste in TV shows, I continue the dating show I started to watch a few days ago. It catches my attention quickly and as the alarm on my phone beeps to remind me that I need to check up on the ragu, it feels like time flew by.
I also need to fill up my glass and it’s a good thing that it’s empty because I surely would have spilled wine all over me as I run into James. His broad figure looms in the kitchen, like a goddamn burglar, and I don’t get how a man with his size can move so silently. But I also have horrible spatial awareness and notice next to nothing when I’m focused, so maybe I am the problem.
He’s standing in front of the stove, his balaclava shoved up, a spoon in his hand. Looking at me like a kid who got caught with the hand in the cookie jar before he gets himself back under control. He stands up straight and lets the spoon fall into the sink with a clatter.
Shaking my head, I put my glass down. The smell that wafts through the house must have drawn him in, understandable because the ragu already smells heavenly.
“Just wanted to check if it has potential or if I need to order pizza.”
“How dare you,” I say with my best offended expression on my face.
“What’re you gonna do, punish me?” he asks in a low tone and before I can think of a clever comeback, he steps closer, trapping me between his body and the countertop behind me.
“Maybe,” I croak out, realizing that my lack of satisfaction isn’t good for my quick-wittedness. I want to punch myself for it because this right here is the exact opposite of keeping the upper hand.
Suddenly, James grabs me by my waist and lifts me up to sit on the counter as if I weigh nothing. With the way he’s leaning down, his face is way too close to mine. One wrong move from one of us and our lips will clash together and all hell will probably break loose.
It’s not that I don’t want to kiss him. Fuck, I want to kiss him until I’m out of breath—but something is holding me back. Deep down, I know a kiss would probably ruin me. Because it means more than stupidly jerking someone off on the couch, and James seems to sense that. Using it to his advantage, that asshole.
During the span from last night to now, he seems to have found his love for making me blush. I can’t hold it against him, because I am the one who tormented him for the past few days and I would be lying if I said that it wasn’t fun. It’s less fun when you’re the one who’s horny and being teased, though.
“I swear to God, James. Test my patience and I’m going to eat all of that alone. You won’t get a single bite.” I fail at sounding intimidating and the slight flush on my cheeks that’s just there because of the wine isn’t helping.
Not to mention the heat that builds in my stomach and rushes down straight between my legs. And if all of this isn’t already bad enough, James puts his hand on my cheek. There must be a gas leak in the house and I’m hallucinating. It is either that or karma.
“It’s cute when you try to be strict, darling.”
Holy shit, apparently two can play this game.