Not the temperature. Just the sense of warmth. As if the home is alive with it.
The entryway opens into a wide space with pale wood floors and a runner rug that looks comfortably used. There’s a console table with a bowl for keys. A framed photo on the wall—something candid, not posed. I don’t stop long enough to study the figures in it, but it registers as I pass.
To the left, a… library with deep couches and a fireplace. To the right, steps that lead up. Straight ahead, the house opens into a large living area with an open kitchen visible beyond it.
There’s art on the walls, but it isn’t sterile. More books on shelves. A throw blanket folded over the back of a chair as if someone actually grabbed it last night.
It feels… human.
That makes my chest tighten in a different way.
I try to reconcile this house with the man who has such rules for me, who watches me with a gaze so intense it makes my skin heat, who can be so stern and demanding one minute and so tender the next.
The thought of Nico and his rules reminds me of the ones I’m following right now. The ones that are already making me hyper-aware of my own body.
I adjust the bags in my hands, pressing my thighs together just for a second before continuing.
If I had panties, they'd be completely ruined right now, but as it is, I can feel the slickness gathering on my bare skin.
I did stop at home quickly to shower and change out of my work clothes, so I did have the chance to put on a new pair, but I figured Nico would be more pleased if I didn't.
The fact that I find myself wondering about whether Nico will be pleased or not makes my face flush all over again.
Marisol leads me through the house, quiet as we walk, and I notice all the little details of this home that continue to surprise me. No harsh overhead fluorescents. A clean, open layout that still feels comfortable, like it was designed to be lived in, not just shown off.
The kitchen is big enough to intimidate me slightly, though.
A large island in the middle, stone countertop, three stools tucked under one side. Stainless appliances. A deep sink. Cabinets that go all the way up to the ceiling. Everything clean, but not empty. A bowl of lemons on the counter. A jar of wooden spoons. A coffee machine that looks like it costs more than a year’s worth of my car payments.
Marisol sets the bags down on the island and turns to me.
“Do you need anything?” she asks. “A cutting board? A roasting pan?”
“I… probably,” I admit. “I’m making a roast. I hope.”
Her mouth twitches, like that almost makes her smile bigger.
“A roast is good,” she says simply. “Do you know what you’re doing?”
“I’ve done it before, but I’m a bit nervous,” I say, and it comes out before I can stop it. “I’m not much of a cook. I don’t know why I’m even attempting this, to be honest.”
Marisol’s smile warms.
“Everyone’s a little nervous at first,” she says. “He’s particular, you know. About… things.”
My stomach flips.
“Is he?” I ask, trying to sound casual. “I hadn't noticed.”
She nods, very slightly.
“He doesn't let many people into this house. And into his… life.”
My throat feels tight again.
I look at the bags on the counter and start unloading them, just to have something to do with my hands. Beef. Potatoes. Carrots. Onions. Garlic. A bottle of red wine I agonized over at the store because I don’t know anything about wine.
Marisol watches me for a second, then moves to a cabinet and pulls out a roasting pan. It’s heavy, dark enameled cast iron, and she places it on the counter with a solid thud.
