She narrows her eyes at me, frown lines that I want to rub away appearing between her brows, but she doesn’t tell me that fine usually means the exact opposite.
Instead, she slips off the stool, rounds the island, and heads for the stove. “Meatballs coming right up.”
I have no idea why, but I feel like a heel. I went to the gym right after the office to blow off steam and stretch out muscles that were not meant to sit in a chair all day long. I’m sweaty, exhausted, and, for some reason, utterly dissatisfied. I’ve felt that way for days, as though my own meatsuit suddenly isn’t so homey. I’m at odds with my own body, and I don’t like it. I can’t pin down just one reason I feel that way. It’s more complicated than that, but usually, working out takes care of that sensation.
Not this time.
I look longingly at the backyard through the windows. The pool glistens in the late evening sunlight, the rays breaking up into a thousand little pieces like broken glass. I want to swim laps in the pool, pushing myself hard, the water washing away the stress of the day, but I probably don’t have time. I’m not going to be late for homemade food that someone is taking time out of their day to prepare.
Amalphia already has the pan on the stove and is pulling things out of the fridge.
“Thanks. I’m looking forward to it.” I groan awkwardly at the guttural caveman—me hungry, meatballs delight me—beating on my chest and the way it comes out, far, far after the fact. “I’ll just get washed up so I don’t smell like an old gym sock and ruin the meal.”
Amalphia responds from deep in the fridge. “Mfkay,” comes her muffled response.
I do the worst thing I can do and step around the island to say something to her. Whatever I want to say is completely forgotten when I see her bent over, her shirt riding up just above her tight jeans, which showcase her lovely round bottom. I shoot my eyes up, but they linger on that tiny, exposed inch of pale skin between her shirt and jeans.
I whip around quickly, focusing on my gym bag as it bangs against my hip and nearly takes me out when I collide with theisland’s lip in my hurry to get out of the kitchen and hit the shower.
Upstairs, I let out a sigh that goes on for decades. I’ve learned that what happened with Candice wasn’t a me problem, though it took me a decade to accept that. I struggled with attraction. I felt tremendous guilt over desire and my body’s natural functions.
Until I lost my virginity at twenty-six, I never masturbated once.
After that night, I spent the next few months reading every book I could find on trauma and healing. I slowly started to let go of the shame, anger, and guilt. With every word I read, I felt like less of a stranger in my own skin. I began to see desire not as a bad thing, but I was always wary of relationships. I wasn’t just burned. I was fucking incinerated.
I don’t need to give myself a pep talk now about inappropriate interactions. Amalphia is a beautiful woman on the outside and inside. I’ve noticed with my mind, my soul, and now my eyes.
The way my cock kicks in my jeans, turning into an erection that could rival a steel bat, tells me that it’s not just my eyes that have noticed it. My whole body twinges, my skin getting that tight feeling again.
I shove all those thoughts down, determined to get them straight off my brain. Amalphia is my employee. She’s Reginald’s ex-girlfriend. Our relationship is platonic. Always. Forever. End of.
I violently empty my gym bag into the washer, then set my shoes and the empty bag on top to air out. I slide the bifold doors enclosing the water and dryer shut to keep everything tidy, then head to the bedroom.
I get a change of clothes ready and strip down in the bathroom.
It smells fresh in here. Like juiced oranges with a hint of lemon. Not only is the air inviting, but it’s alsosparkling.
I notice the shower tiles feel a little slick, but when I turn the spray on, it goes fromI think it might be a little bit slipperystraight toyour ass is glass, airmail style.
Forget slipping.
There’szerotraction. I’m one of those poor fuckers straight out of those black ice videos trying to walk down their sidewalk or get up their driveway.
“Yaaaaafucccccckkkkk!” I vainly grab the glass as I’m falling, but there’s nothing to get my hand around. My palmbangs against the glass, and I go down.
I try to remember all my early-in-life jujitsu training, my karate lessons, the boxing class my parents put me in, and even earlier, gymnastics. I have a personal trainer I train with at least four times a week, but lately, I’ve been far more into calisthenics than anything else. Oh, and yoga, but I save that for when I’m at home. Breathing exercises, I tell you. They’ll change your life.
I could use a few now.
I try and get upright, only to slip and fall on my back again. My tailbone is smarting, and my shins ache, but at least nothing’s broken. I didn’t land backward on my wrists as I tried to catch myself in the worst way. The water spray is practically drowning me though.
And…that’s how Amalphia finds me.
In my dude-in-distress era.
While I was thrashing around, trying to stay alive, I didn’t hear her thunder up the stairs. I left my bedroom door open a crack and the bathroom door is thrown wide open.
My eyes lock with hers. They’re wide and terrified. Her mouth opens in a horrified O. “Oh my god, are you okay?” she yelps.
