Get your shit together and focus.
A-ha! A squishy, stress relief ball. I send it flying in his direction. Part of my irritation is with him; the other part is him being a surrogate.
He dodged it, which isn’t too hard since I’m not really throwing to connect. It’s more of an expression of my ire.
“Will you stop throwing stuff! What’s your problem, lady?”
I don’t want to be a lady. In fact, if he stormed my way, I’d probably be weak enough to let him take me on the counter. My body tingles at the thought. My frown deepens.
I look at his hand for confirmation now that he’s closer.
“You’re married!” A box of tissue sails past him, just barely missing his ear. “How could you, you cheat!”
A shadow crosses his eyes, but it’s not guilt or regret.
“You didn’t care last night.”
“I shouldn’t have to ask. It’s something you volunteer. You know, like, ‘Get the hell away from me crazy, wet woman. I have a wife!’”
Was that a smirk? I should pick something that hurts. I look for something that would sting but not be damaging, but he takes advantage of my hunt and picks me up. Damn his big body. I flail and wiggle like a pissed off toddler. Except, my attempts cause me to rub against his solid body, and my mind goes back to Gutterville with each step he takes up the stairs. I have a feeling about the destination, but I ask anyway.
“Where are you taking me?”
“Somewhere you can’t throw shit at me. Both of us have some explaining to do.”
We used the same soap and shampoo this morning, yet they smell so much better radiating off his irritated skin. It’s almost intoxicating, and I wonder if ‘Mistress’ is the worst title in the world. With my past, I should hate the way he’s carrying me. My back against his chest, his solid arms banded around me under my breasts, trapping my arms at my sides, my legs left to dangle as he takes commanding strides up the steps. His slightly labored breathing makes his warm breath tease the skin on my ear and neck. I should be pissed. I should be scared. I should not be aroused. But, I am—so damn aroused. The angel on my right shoulder shushes the devil on my left. There is no man worth fucking up someone else’s marriage. I just need to get away from him.
He clears the landing and stomps down the hallway while ignoring my now feeble attempt to get out of his hold. I know some basic shit to get out of his grasp if I really need to get away. It would require hurting him, and deep down, I don’t want to do that. I can let him be an unharmed asshole. I’m confused by the sadness I feel. I don’t know what I expected when the sun came up, but his being married wasn’t one of them. It would be crazy to assume that we had some sort of future. Right? We don’t know each other’s name and neither of us are clearly in a space for a relationship. I mean, I did crawl out of the freaking ocean not even twelve hours ago.
That’s a major factor in why I shouldn’t want my captor more. Especially with him currently storming into the bedroom I vacated this morning after waking up next to him, dropping me on my back on the bed, and climbing his fully clothed body over mine to hold me down. He’s straddling my hips, and my hands are trapped above my head with both of his—big, solid, and sexy. His previously neat hair is slightly ruffled, his shirt is wrinkled, and his eyes are brooding yet curious. I want to kiss him again. I want to doeverythingagain. The sadness returned. I know we hardly spoke in the dark; we didn’t need words. The look on his face, and the way he instantly held me as I shivered, made me believe we had a connection. It’s crazy, but I thought he needed me as much as I needed him. We needed each other. Instead, I wake up as an unwilling mistress, still aroused by the cheater. I must have been a major bitch in my past life.
“Are you done being crazy now?” His gruff voice makes me tingle.
“I’m not crazy. Did you notice that nothing hit you, and everything I threw wasn’t harmful?”
“The first thing you threw was a Post-it pad. Ever heard of paper cuts?”
“You are such a baby to think a paper cut would be dangerous. Besides, I aimed way off on purpose.”
He narrows his eyes at me. My other feelings float away, leaving behind what-ifs. What if he’s crazy and is about to chop me up? What if this is the time I’m supposed to be reasoning with him? What if his wife is the rich one, and he thinks I’m jeopardizing his money?
“Look, Mister. I’m over it. I had to let you know how I felt about your philandering ways, but I don’t care enough to pursue it any further. Your secret is safe with me. Whore away, and I’ll just be on my way; if you happen to have something for me to wear, so I don’t get arrested walking down the street, that would be great. Like I said, your secret is safe with me—”
“I’m not married.”
“Look, you don’t owe me an explanation. I will point out that you may want to get a tan on your ring finger and hide all the wedding and couple photos before you bring someone else over, though.”
I shift my weight to check his hold. Yup. Still tight.
“Look, if you’re some kind of serial killer, let’s pretend you’re not and let me go, please?”
“I’m not a serial killer.”
“See? That’s the spirit.”
I wiggle again. No dice.
“I didn’t say I was letting you go yet. You may as well stop squirming.”
