“That’s insane. I have a job, friends, a life.”
“I’m a part of all those things. I know your boss, and that she won’t care if I come to work with you. I’m friends with your friends, and your life is me, just the way my life is you.”
I feel my mouth fall open, because I don’t think he’s joking. In fact, I’m sure he’s not. “I’m going to Betty’s,” I say, shuffling to the edge of the bed and onto my feet before I realize I’m only wearing his shirt.
“I’ll go and get your case from the car,” he says, standing and leaving the room.
The moment I’m alone, I consider making a run for it. Only minutes ago, I was thinking about how, despite his outlandish claims that we’re meant to be together, I hadn’t felt the need to escape, but that’s all different now.
Abel insisted that I be part of his world, but he was never very interested in mine. Once we got together, he didn’t care about my friends or my job. He wanted me to conform to his life, to change and fit into the tiny box he created for me.
Knight isn’t willing to make a box. He just wants to plonk his ass right into the center of my existence and make everything else move out of his way, and I’m honestly not sure if that’s better or worse.
I’m still standing in the same place I was when he left, when Knight strolls back into the bedroom, my case in one of his hands, the muscles in his arm flexing under the weight, and his cell in the other hand, the screen activated with something playing. Instead of laying the case on the bed, he carries itstraight into the closet, placing it on the floor and unzipping it, before he starts to carefully unpack my things.
There’s something about watching this huge, rugged man carefully take out my frilly dresses and hang them up next to his clothes that makes warmth pool low in my belly. Okay, the warmth is pooling right in my pussy. Watching Knight reverently smooth creases from my clothes is turning me on.
I have never met a man willing to mess with his girlfriend’s or wife’s clothes unless he was being forced. But Knight isn’t just unpacking. He’s taking note of each thing he unfolds, visually cataloging my belongings. It’s…weird, but it’s also kind of sweet.
“What would you like to wear?” he asks once he’s meticulously placed the last of my things into the empty drawers in his dresser.
“It’s fine, I can—” I start.
“I’ll help,” he says, the same way he said it back in Rapid City.
“Anything is fine. I was just going to throw on some sweats?—”
“That’s not how you dress,” he interrupts.
“No,” I start to protest, but then pause, because he’s right. That’s not how I dress. I didn’t even own a pair of sweats until I met Abel.
“I’ll help,” he says decisively, opening the drawer he put my underwear in and taking out a black-and-white houndstooth-patterned set that’s so sheer that even with it on, I’m barely wearing anything.
Crouching low, he holds out the tiny panties for me, not speaking as he waits for me to step into them. Pulling them up, he runs his finger beneath the waistband to make sure it’s lying flat before he helps me into the bra, his eyes narrowing at the way my pebbled nipples protrude indecently through the mesh fabric.
I wait for him to reach out and touch, but instead, he turns away, slowly perusing the rail of clothes until he eventually pullsout a pink satin skirt with attached bow suspenders and a white blouse with puffed capped sleeves and a huge bow that ties beneath the collar.
For most guys, picking out an outfit for a woman would be an achievement, but Knight doesn’t just pick out the basics. Once he’s helped me into the blouse and skirt, he selects a black layered net underskirt, white knee-high socks with pink bows on the sides, and black heeled ankle boots.
It’s not an outfit I’ve worn together before, so I know he’s not replicating something he’s already seen me wear, but it’s adorable. Leaning more toward Lolita style than gothic, it’s totally something I’d have styled myself.
“How did you know what to pick?” I ask him, too curious to stay quiet.
“Reconnaissance,” he says simply.
“Reconnaissance,” I repeat beneath my breath, struggling to process his response.
Once I’m fully dressed, he leads me into the bathroom and positions me in front of the mirror, while he opens a drawer, revealing a stockpile of bows, ribbons, and hair ties in black, white, and pink. Some are patterned, some plain, some so extra, I immediately want to pick them up and examine them.
Silently, he brushes my hair, then instead of putting it in bunches like I’m expecting, he blow-dries the length until it’s a glossy mane, then positions a hair band with a black-and-pink bow perfectly behind my bangs.
“I’ll fetch your makeup,” he says, stepping out of the bathroom and returning moments later carrying my makeup case.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
A part of me expects him to smile, or prompt me to be grateful or praising, but Knight’s expression stays serious, like the only important thing that’s happening is me getting ready.For a moment, I consider questioning him again, asking him what he’s getting out of this, why he learned how to do my hair, why he researched my style, and why any of this is important to him. But I get the impression his answers would confuse me even more. So instead, I do my makeup, ignoring the furrow in his brow while he watches me like he’s learning how to defuse a bomb, not watching me do my eyeliner.
Once I’d done, I slowly spin to face him, gnawing at my lip with my teeth.
