Yet I can’t seem to help it.
He hasn’t fired me, but I can tell most days he’s barely tolerating my presence here. I’m a pariah to him. More detestable by the day. It eats at me. I don’t necessarily need his praise, just something more than the nothing he gives me would suffice.
He’s still in his suit, even at this hour. Stiff and refined and so, so miserable. What I wouldn’t give to knock him out of his shell. To finally see the man he works so hard to hide. He has a living, beating heart in his chest, he just refuses to acknowledge it’s there.
Sort of like me.
“Good chat!” I call out as the door shuts behind him. I blow out an aggravated breath.
Maybe it’s easier this way. Maybe asking for more of him is asking for trouble. His attention on me might not be something I’ll survive. I already had the filthiest dreams after he put his hand up in my hair in the library, and that was hardly anything scandalous. It was my hair, not my breast or my pussy, though that’s where my brain went every night for weeks.
I’ve touched myself to the king of Messalina more times than I can count.
Would he laugh if he knew that truth? Laugh at just how untouched I actually am?
Going into my room, I get ready for bed even though the hour is early and I’m not all that tired yet. I could go to the library. I could wander around the palace and explore more of the rooms. Something I’ve done on random nights when sleep escaped me. Instead, I lie in my bed, listening to the wind and the rain pelt the palace. I text my father, telling him I miss him and that I’ll see him on Sunday.
He doesn’t reply, but I don’t expect him to. My visit with him last Sunday was a good one, and I spent two hours more with him than I otherwise would have just so I could savor it. He told me stories about when he met my mother and aboutwhat their relationship was like when they were dating. He told me about when they discovered she was pregnant with me and how excited they were.
I stare at my phone, restless, agitated, a little worked up. I’m not even sure what makes me do it, but I pull up the text stream with Sebastian, which is mostly one-sided texts from me to him. Tonight, more than any other night and beyond explanation, that bothers me. I get zero feedback from him about the job I’m doing.
I slither under my blankets, taking my phone with me, and…fuck it.
Me: Are you awake?
The three dots dance almost instantly and my heart leaps in my chest. I suppress a squeal, biting into my lip, far too excited that he’s responding to me.
Sebastian: Yes. What is it?
My squeal turns into a groan and my lip-biting turns into a roll of my eyes.
Me: Do you think I’m doing a bad job with the children? Is that why you won’t speak to me?
The dots go again only to disappear. This pattern repeats itself two more times, and then…
Sebastian: That’s not why I don’t speak to you.
Immediately, I pounce on that.
Me: So you admit I’m doing a good job? And that you intentionally don’t speak to me?
Sebastian: My time is already limited. What little I have, I spend with my children.
He doesn’t answer my question about me doing a good job and I decide not to press it.
Me: That’s a lame excuse and one we both know isn’t true.
Sebastian: What are you looking for me to say?
It’s a valid question. One I don’t quite know the answer to. Suddenly I feel a bit foolish, seeking his praise and attention like a child. He’s a lot older than me and I have a girlish crush I need to get rid of. He’s right for treating me this way. I’m the one being unprofessional.
Me: Nothing. Never mind. Sorry I brought it up.
Sebastian: Just between us, just right now, I avoid you because I have to. Because if I gave you my attention, I’d only want to give you more of it.
I read his words over and over again. I both love and hate the way they make me feel. I opened this up, and now…
Me: I think I want your attention for the same reason.
