All those Coleman Inc. shares won’t buy themselves, will they? And I have a bone to pick with my father, so I need to get the ball rolling on my silent and patient takeover. I’m close to having accumulated the controlling interest I seek, and by the end of this year, I might own over fifty percent of the voting shares. Then, all I’ll have to do is decide what I want to do with that control I spent billions of dollars on. Fire my father? Sell all my shares at once, making their prices tank? Slowly dismantle the company?
I haven’t decided yet, but I’ve had years to come up with ideas. I’m sure I’ll know what to do when the time comes.
A few hours into my duties, hunger has me venturing out of my home office. Contrary to Andrea, I was never much of a food enthusiast. I appreciate a well-cooked meal, like anyone else, but it’smore of a way to fuel myself than a passion—we can’t all be food-obsessed raccoons. Spending three months in Sheridan has brought me a new appreciation for it, though. Prison food was foul, and getting to pick whatever I want from the massive food haul Andrea prepared for my return has been enjoyable.
Maybe I’ll eat the fried rice I noticed earlier. And I might make it last longer with chopsticks instead of shoveling it in my mouth with a fork.
I’m bent over, looking for it when I hear Andrea’s bare footsteps join me in the kitchen. When I can’t find the box, I ask, “Have you seen the fried rice?”
“I ate it.”
Bothered, I straighten up and close the fridge to offer her a displeased frown. It gets lost in my surprise as I take her in.
She’s looking for a glass container, wearing what must be tonight’s pajamas—a tight tank top and matching white underwear. The fabric of her top is so thin that I can easily make out the dark circles of her areolas beneath it. It has risen a little, leaving a band of bare skin before her panties cover the rest. Those aren’t lace or even see-through, but plain cotton. And for some reason, that works even better on me.
I’m stunned for a moment, my gaze avidly traveling all over her, taking as much as it can before she turns to me, and I’m forced to stop. But she doesn’t. She doesn’t look at me, not once, which gives her ploy away. She wants me to stare. She meant for me to, and she isn’t looking back, so I can feel free to do so at my leisure. This cunning little woman knew exactly what she was doing when she came out like this. And now, she’s lingering here with me, pretending not to notice how tongue-tied I am.
“Excuse me,” she mumbles, slipping right past me to open the fridge.
The smell of jasmine is more intense than usual, meaning she must have just showered. The slightly wet tendrils on the back of her neck confirm it.
She chooses a takeout container from the top shelf and then moves to the kitchen island, still not granting me a single glance.
Although I figured out her little plan, I can’t help but appreciate how subtle she tried to be about it. She has underwear much more revealing than this, but she chose something less obvious. Or maybe she knew that, by covering most of her ass, I’d be even more tempted to take it off her.
I watch, entranced, as she transfers what’s in the cardboard box into her glass container. She settles one of her feet on top of the other, giving her body an alluring curve.
Fucking hell, I’m tempted to take the two steps that separate us and press myself onto her. She must know what she’s doing to me, so I’m sureshe would not only expect it but also welcome it. It would be so easy to bend her over the counter, pull her underwear down, and fuck her. We don’t even have to talk. Not a word. Nothing but our bodies expressing themselves in a way they know all too well.
No, that would hurt her. I need to make sure she’s ready for me first.
Even though the curves I loved so much have gotten thinner, I still want to drop to my knees and worship every one of them. So that’s exactly what I would do. I’d bend her over, get on my knees, and lick her pink little slit from behind, preparing her for my cock. Those greedy little sounds she used to make, her pleas, the hiccups of pleasure… They’d fill the space and my ears. God, I fucking miss those.
I should stop staring, but my eyes follow her as she goes to throw the box into the recycling and returns to pick up the container.
This time, she brushes against me when she returns to put it in the fridge. “That’s mine,” she tells me. “For tomorrow. Don’t eat it.”
Finally, she looks at me, straight in the eye. Like the mastermind she is, she brings her thumb between her plump lips to suck away a smear of sauce there.
My cock, which has fully awakened, twitches in my basketball shorts. One look and she’ll know just how well her cunning enterprise worked on me. But she doesn’t gaze down. Instead, she turns around and walks away.
And just like that, I’m alone again.
I stand there like a moron, feeling mind-fucked. My cock aches as much as my brain, desperate to be buried inside her.
But I can’t let that happen. As much as I crave her and her presence—despite claiming the opposite—I’m still convinced we’re cursed to become each other’s doom. I never realized how intense love can be, so I never fathomed that, one day, I’d be ready to kill for someone. And yes, I’d risk my life for hers in a heartbeat. But where does it end? What are the limits of such reckless love?
I’m willing to embark on a self-destructive path for her, willing to do anything for her sake. But the thought of her doing the same for me tears my heart to shreds. I don’t want her to risk her life for mine. I can’t bear the concept. It’s like a paradox that can’t be solved, no matter how hard I think about it.
If I’m willing to do anything for her, and she’s willing to risk her life for me, then shouldn’t the next logical step be to let her go? Isn’t it the best thing I can do to protect her from herself and to prevent her from risking it all for me again?
It’s the only solution I can think of. The only thing that makes sense. If we aren’t together any longer, then she’ll learn to love someone else, someone who doesn’t have my problematic past. And hopefully, she’ll love him a little less, enough to be reasonable about it.
That’s why, instead of joining her in my bed like I long to with every fiber in my body, I look down at my hardened cock and mutter, “Go away.”
Eventually, she’ll grow tired of my feigned indifference and decide to leave on her own. It’s the gentlest way I can let her go. And if that doesn’t work, I’ll find something else. Something less gentle.
To my great distress, my glimpse into Andrea’s psychological warfare was only the beginning. Quickly, I ask myself who will break first. Will it be me? Will I give in to her clear invitations and drag her to the nearest bed? Or will it be her, offended that I’m not giving in?
