He’s restrained and calculating. And even last night, I could tell there were times when he wanted to take me down on the floor, but didn’t.
He kept clutching the chair and calmly leading me to do what he wanted or perhaps what I wanted.
He’s a handsome man with a nice body. Fun. Intelligent. Sexy. Rich. What girl wouldn’t have said yes? I kept thinking of putting it off and pushing him away to see if he’ll keep coming around, but I have a feeling this man doesn’t like to be denied and dislikes games even more.
I have a feeling he likes to know where he stands and goes for a sure thing where his efforts and risk are more likely to pay off.
He’s taking a risk on me too.
I mean, this is America, and the wife can take it all.
He’s got more money than anyone I know, the kind of money I can’t even imagine, and last night at dinner, his brother brought up a valid point. Hudson thought I was a gold digger or a con artist who’s taking Blake for a ride only to leave him after I got what I wanted.
It hadn’t crossed my mind, but that doesn’t mean Blake doesn’t worry about women like that in the same way I worry about him breaking my heart when he’s had his fill of adventure, when the fantasy tale ends. An ordinary poor girl. A wealthy man. It’s a tale as old as time.
I’m worried about being the Cinderella he’s gonna forget.
Did he worry I would take advantage of him? Probably not. He seems certain we’re a great fit, certain enough to ask me to marry him.
I’m feeling a little humbled he’d place so much faith in our relationship and in me. If he can put himself out there like that, why wouldn’t I? See where we end up. Maybe in the gutter. Maybe old and wrinkly, retired somewhere in Europe.
I lift the comforter. His cock’s nice. I mean real nice. Big, long, and partially hard even when he sleeps. I want to touch it and jerk him off, but Blake’s breathing tells me he’s sleeping deep and could likely use the rest.
Leaving the bed slowly, I do my business in the bathroom, where there’s a spare toothbrush I use. After slipping on a fluffy cotton hotel robe, I exit quietly and find a kitchen equipped with every coffee style imaginable.
Regular, espresso, instant. As I make a cup, I wonder why he takes the coffee downstairs at the shop when he can brew one here. It’s cheaper and tastes the same. I snort. As if he worries about what’s cheaper.
Sitting in the chair next to the one he sat on last night, I drink my coffee. Somehow, I know only Blake sits on that other chair. Out of place in the luxurious modern apartment, it’s thepiece with personality. Scratched black leather worn out from the countless hours he’s sat in it. It occurs to me, the chair’s a keeper, one he never replaced with something shiny and new.
I glance at the city. The sun shines over the high-rises, the cars fill the street, people hustle about their day even this early in the morning. Chicago never sleeps. It’s too big for sleeping.
When I first moved here, I was intimidated, lost, scared I was gonna end up homeless one day when three months of rent and food money went away. But I found a job pretty fast and met some nice, if very straight-talking people.
It took me a while to get used to the bluntness, but I accepted it as the way most people here formed honest relationships, made friends, and laughed with coworkers. Most people I met here just said it how it is, and I started liking that. It makes me feel good knowing where I stand with people I meet.
I sip the coffee, thinking about nothing and everything, wondering if this is really going to become my life now. Waking up here, taking coffee in this very chair, with him sleeping in the next room. Am I someone he’ll keep forever?
Uncertainty grips my throat like a rough lover wanting to choke me. I breathe out of my mouth, in through my nose, deep breaths, but I can’t stop feeling like maybe Blake was just playing with me, maybe he’s gonna wake up and wonder what I’m still doing here. Oh my God. What if he does that?
He bought a hymen, after all.
The ring on my finger glares back, trying to tell me Blake really does want to marry me. Our engagement is in the papers and all over social media already, I bet. But I can’t stop feeling like he’s fucking with me. Rejection hurts, and I’m gonna break when he wakes up and practically has to tell me to leave.
I run a hand through my hair. His conviction and confidence make me feel stupid about second-guessing him, and I grip the hem of the robe as I lean my head back on the chair and exhale.
The bedroom door opens, and I tilt my face and hold my breath. Here it is. The morning after.
Blake enters the modern warm beige-and-brown-decorated living space in black silk pajama pants. “You’re still here,” he says and heads for the kitchen.
I swallow. What does he mean,you’re still here? Oh God, I was right. I was so right. This must’ve been some sort of kinky game or maybe even the Italians cooked it up, and Blake played out, and now he’s trying to politely ignore me so I can get a clue.
As I stand to leave, he walks around my chair and grabs my chin, tilts it, kisses my lips. “Good morning.”
He’s searching my eyes, and when his narrow slightly, I know he’s gonna ask me what’s going through my head, but I will not tell. I don’t need to sound like an insecure needy little sasshole when he hasn’t done anything to make me question his motives, however sudden or crazy they might sound to me. He’s not cut from the same cloth I am. He’s got all his shit together, whereas I don’t.
“What’s the matter?” he asks.
“Nothing. Everything is wonderful.”
