CHAPTER 6
I COME BACK down to earth, my legs shuddering around Jeremy’s head, the orgasm better than anything I have ever brought myself. I have the sudden realization that I have pushed through a door—the door of awareness. I will never enjoy my orgasms the same, will always compare them to this moment. I close my eyes and wonder what sex will feel like. How his cock will differ from my toys. How the unknown, undirected motion will stack up against my stimulated thrusts. I relax my legs, letting them drop from his shoulders, and feel his hands on my skin as he stands, open my eyes to find him smiling, a crooked, sexy gesture that I can’t help but return. “You look pleased with yourself,” I mumble.
I don’t know dating protocol. Is now when I suck his cock? My limbs are too relaxed, my brain too lazy to do anything other than lie here. He falls onto the bed next to me, the mattress jumping at the additional weight, and both of us stare up at the ceiling. He reaches his arm around me, and I lift my head and allow his arm to steal underneath, relaxing back against the strength of his shoulder.
“Is this okay?” he asks.
I smile. “Yeah. This is cool.” I enjoy the moment, the warmth of him next to me, and curl slightly to the side until I am nestled in the crook of his body. “Are you okay?” I blush, trying to find the right word, my personal dictionary too stocked with crude terms to be ladylike. “Do you want to get off or are you—”
“I’m fine.” He presses a soft kiss onto my head. “I didn’t intend to barrel in here and take advantage of you. In fact… I had big plans to be a gentleman.”
“Is that what that peck in the hallway was all about?”
“Peck?” His scoff makes me smile. “From your reaction, I think it worked pretty well.”
“Easy, Casanova.” I poke his side, admiring when my finger hits hard muscle. “Just making sure you don’t get a big head.”
“I understand. Your biting comments are your way of secretly stroking a man’s ego.”
“Stroking is one of my talents,” I tease, the comment earning me a groan, his body rolling into mine, his hand gripping my back and sliding me closer, until I am flush against him. Then, he reclaims my mouth with one, long, heart-stopping kiss.
Ten minutes later, the witching hour near, we say our good-byes. An hour later, there is the slide of dead bolt through metal, and Simon locks me in for the next eight hours.
CHAPTER 7
House Arrest Countdown: 2 Months, 3 Weeks
A WEEK AGO, Marcus had walked through palatial doors to an empty house, the stale smell not overcome by the traffic of maids and repairmen. It felt like someone else’s home, the sweeping banisters, the chandelier that towered thirty feet above him, all staring at him as if unsure of who this man—his clothes cheap, face unshaven—was. He had moved through the entire house, visiting rooms he hadn’t seen in years, nodding to unfamiliar staff as he tried to reacquaint himself with his former lifestyle.
Now, he still feels awkward, as if he is living another man’s life, an imposter in a world he once dominated. It’s the minor things that point it out. The smell of refinement—something his nose is relearning, each scent bringing back memories and a piece of the man he used to be. A cigar, freshly cut, its smoky scent and the change in it once lit. The citrus scent of polish. The whiff of it from his housekeeper’s rag as she wipes a banister. The scent that hangs off Persian rugs, custom drapes, and fine leather. Merlot, the draw of it against his nostril sweeter given the fact that the bottle bears his winery’s name.
The smells comfort him. Move him closer to the acceptance that he is home. And the other, more vulnerable smells of emotion, are slowly but surely giving him back the confidence, the swagger, that prison has robbed him of.
Fear. It floats off the elderly woman who cleans his house, as she avoids eye contact and scurries out of the room when he enters. Subservience. The smell of weakness, shown in limp handshakes, quickly nodding heads, flurries of activity in response to his words. Respect. The best smell of them all, the one that will be confirmation that the axis has righted, that life is back in order, that he is once again king and un-fucking-stoppable.
He frowns at his ankle, at his constant reminder that he is, in fact, stoppable. It blinks. All the fucking time. He’d had to stuff his feet under the covers last night just so that damn light wouldn’t keep him awake. Had to feel the restrictive weight of sheets and blankets pressing on his toes. Kicking did nothing, the weight settling back down as soon as his movement stopped. Fucking bracelet. Pinching the hair on his ankle. Makes him want to shave his leg like a fag.
I COME BACK down to earth, my legs shuddering around Jeremy’s head, the orgasm better than anything I have ever brought myself. I have the sudden realization that I have pushed through a door—the door of awareness. I will never enjoy my orgasms the same, will always compare them to this moment. I close my eyes and wonder what sex will feel like. How his cock will differ from my toys. How the unknown, undirected motion will stack up against my stimulated thrusts. I relax my legs, letting them drop from his shoulders, and feel his hands on my skin as he stands, open my eyes to find him smiling, a crooked, sexy gesture that I can’t help but return. “You look pleased with yourself,” I mumble.
I don’t know dating protocol. Is now when I suck his cock? My limbs are too relaxed, my brain too lazy to do anything other than lie here. He falls onto the bed next to me, the mattress jumping at the additional weight, and both of us stare up at the ceiling. He reaches his arm around me, and I lift my head and allow his arm to steal underneath, relaxing back against the strength of his shoulder.
“Is this okay?” he asks.
I smile. “Yeah. This is cool.” I enjoy the moment, the warmth of him next to me, and curl slightly to the side until I am nestled in the crook of his body. “Are you okay?” I blush, trying to find the right word, my personal dictionary too stocked with crude terms to be ladylike. “Do you want to get off or are you—”
“I’m fine.” He presses a soft kiss onto my head. “I didn’t intend to barrel in here and take advantage of you. In fact… I had big plans to be a gentleman.”
“Is that what that peck in the hallway was all about?”
“Peck?” His scoff makes me smile. “From your reaction, I think it worked pretty well.”
“Easy, Casanova.” I poke his side, admiring when my finger hits hard muscle. “Just making sure you don’t get a big head.”
“I understand. Your biting comments are your way of secretly stroking a man’s ego.”
“Stroking is one of my talents,” I tease, the comment earning me a groan, his body rolling into mine, his hand gripping my back and sliding me closer, until I am flush against him. Then, he reclaims my mouth with one, long, heart-stopping kiss.
Ten minutes later, the witching hour near, we say our good-byes. An hour later, there is the slide of dead bolt through metal, and Simon locks me in for the next eight hours.
CHAPTER 7
House Arrest Countdown: 2 Months, 3 Weeks
A WEEK AGO, Marcus had walked through palatial doors to an empty house, the stale smell not overcome by the traffic of maids and repairmen. It felt like someone else’s home, the sweeping banisters, the chandelier that towered thirty feet above him, all staring at him as if unsure of who this man—his clothes cheap, face unshaven—was. He had moved through the entire house, visiting rooms he hadn’t seen in years, nodding to unfamiliar staff as he tried to reacquaint himself with his former lifestyle.
Now, he still feels awkward, as if he is living another man’s life, an imposter in a world he once dominated. It’s the minor things that point it out. The smell of refinement—something his nose is relearning, each scent bringing back memories and a piece of the man he used to be. A cigar, freshly cut, its smoky scent and the change in it once lit. The citrus scent of polish. The whiff of it from his housekeeper’s rag as she wipes a banister. The scent that hangs off Persian rugs, custom drapes, and fine leather. Merlot, the draw of it against his nostril sweeter given the fact that the bottle bears his winery’s name.
The smells comfort him. Move him closer to the acceptance that he is home. And the other, more vulnerable smells of emotion, are slowly but surely giving him back the confidence, the swagger, that prison has robbed him of.
Fear. It floats off the elderly woman who cleans his house, as she avoids eye contact and scurries out of the room when he enters. Subservience. The smell of weakness, shown in limp handshakes, quickly nodding heads, flurries of activity in response to his words. Respect. The best smell of them all, the one that will be confirmation that the axis has righted, that life is back in order, that he is once again king and un-fucking-stoppable.
He frowns at his ankle, at his constant reminder that he is, in fact, stoppable. It blinks. All the fucking time. He’d had to stuff his feet under the covers last night just so that damn light wouldn’t keep him awake. Had to feel the restrictive weight of sheets and blankets pressing on his toes. Kicking did nothing, the weight settling back down as soon as his movement stopped. Fucking bracelet. Pinching the hair on his ankle. Makes him want to shave his leg like a fag.
