I follow a good six feet behind Cole all the way back to her apartment. There is no fucking way I am going to speak for fear of saying something that will make Cole change her mind.
A fleeting thought passes through my lust-addled brain that maybe we should slow down. That this is too good to be true. But this is Cole, and fuck if I’m not a desperate, pathetic man that has repressed just how much I’ve been pining after this woman since middle school. Even when I’ve acted like I hated her, it was just that—an act.
I dig my hands into my jean pockets as I watch her unlock her apartment door. We are immediately greeted by Ernest, her three-legged dog. The one I obviously know about even though I’m not supposed to.
The bastard growls at me.
“Good boy,” she coos, sending a jolt straight to my dick.The dog. She’s talking to the dog, Benoit.
She stands and begins stripping off her boots, socks, and tights, leaving her legs bare beneath her plaid skirt. She mutters something about “gross, sticky tights,” kicking them away from her with a flick of her toe. Not a single glance has been thrown in my direction.
“Colette…” I venture, testing my luck.
“Benjamin…” she replies, stripping her sweater off.
“Fuck.” I turn around because it is incredibly difficult to focus when Cole’s tits are popping out of the top of her lacey bra. “I—Is this real?”
“Here’s the deal, Benjamin. I’ve been… frustrated. And that is partially your fault, so now I need your help remedying that situation.” I can hear her sigh, but I still refuse to look. I need to be able to think straight, even as my dick is pressing uncomfortably against the zipper of my pants.
“Something I’ve learned since the last time we lived in the same city,” she continues, “is that I like things a particular way when it comes to sex. I get the feeling you’ll be okay with that, but if you’re not, that’s completely fine, too.”
I clear my throat, hand scrubbing over my face. The problem with that is when my eyes close, Cole’s perfect breasts are burned into my mind. My eyes pop open, and I focus on the peeling paint making an unintentional pattern across the back side of her front door. “What, uh… what exactly does that mean?”
“I prefer to be in charge,” she states plainly. A new image has popped into my head, one I’ve conjured completely on my own. Cole in full leather, my hands bound above my head. She’s climbing on top of—“I know it’s not for everyone but I’ve done a lot of research, some trial and error, and that’s what I prefer. We can come up with a safe word, you can be out at any moment, no questions asked. Most men are more apprehensive?—”
“I’m in,” I interrupt, turning back toward her. I’ve surprised her with how quickly I agreed, but she recovers instantly.
“Great. Safe word?”
“Foudroyant.” Her mouth pops open in a surprised “O”—probably because that was the word she spelled correctly in our junior year spelling bee, beating me to win. She went all the way to the state level that year.
“Foudroyant,” she repeats. “O-okay.” It’s the first time I’ve seen her stumble since I walked out of Harriet’s. Good. She can be in charge in the bedroom but I don’t want her to confuse what this means to me. The fact that she even let me into her space—I don’t take that for granted.
“One more thing.” She steps closer to me, her eyes bouncing back and forth between mine. “This doesn’t mean we are friends.”
“Excellent,” I reply. “I don’t want to be friends with you anyway.” Which is a partial truth. The part she’s ready to hear.
“My bedroom is the second door on the right. Clothes off. I expect you to be waiting for me.”
My returning grin is wicked. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Good boy.” She smirks, and this time itisdirected at me.
Biting my knuckles, I turn and follow her commands. When I open the door to her room, I immediately see that it screamsCole. The walls are a dark charcoal color, the white sheets pop against the wooden accents and moody vintage art on the walls.There’s a psychology textbook on her bedside table and an ornate rug covers most of the floor.
It’s very… serious. In a deep, sensual way.
As I start to strip, I notice a snake plant on the window sill that is in desperate need of some water. Looking around, there’s a half-empty water glass abandoned next to Cole’s bed that has just enough water left in it. That’s how Cole finds me: in nothing but my boxers, watering her dying plant.
“You aren’t very good at listening,” she admonishes.
“Your plant is dying.”
She quirks a brow. “Maybe I wanted it to.”
“You didn’t.”
“No,” she admits, “I didn’t.”
