Chapter Eighty
Like the old adagea watched kettle never boils, it seems a watched for Kai never arrives.Still bored, so very bored. I’ve sent Niamh a text telling her of my intention to spend some time in Kai’s gym. I’d expected a volley of responses, sane words to talk me down from the ledge, but I guess she must be busy in class this morning because I haven’t receive one solitary text. Or maybe she’s still smarting from being outed? Who knows?
I try to talk myself out of it and then remember I’ve nothing else to do. And that I’m putting on weight; at least I think I am. Kai doesn’t seem to own a set of scales—no surprise there—the man always looks like Adonis after a juice fast.
But mine is a vicious cycle, but not the biking kind. I’m bored, therefore I eat. I eat, therefore I’m putting on weight. The size of my arse depresses the shit out of me. So bored and depressed, I eat again.
Half an hour of punishment it is then. Not to mention upping my carb curbing.
Healthy living sucks arse.
I do twenty minutes on the treadmill, counting the five it took to work out how to switch it on. And the five I stood with my feet planted on the side guards while the belt whirred like a demon, after I’d inadvertently selected a pre-set workout of Kai’s.
Okay, fine. I did ten minutes. And even that left me out of breath.
Next, I hop on the bike wondering why my legs don’t reach the pedals. I get off, re-adjust the seat, then get down again five uncomfortable minutes later when I’m reminded of two things: I once did a spin class that made me puke halfway through and riding bikes causes my... myundercarriageto bruise.
‘Taint no laughing matter. My bits are just bike unfriendly, is all.
I’m now sitting on the row-thingy, contemplating bringing the handle-thing a bit closer, when my phone buzzes with a text. Niamh. It has to be, and it’s never too late to be talked out of a bad idea.
Opening the phone, it’s not from Niamh. It’s from Kai. A picture message. My black underwear, the missing pair, laid out on what I guess to be Kai’s hotel bed.
I text back:Where’s the ransom note?I stare at the phone, willing a reply and when it comes, it reads one word.
Reciprocate.
I consider dashing upstairs to grab a pair of hisArmaniboxer briefs, replicating the image, but struck by a flash of daring decide to go with another plan.
Remember the terms of our parting?
Between my legs pulses once, leaving me both empty and tingling as I recall his terms.
I’ll decide how you come. And when.
Patience is a virtue,I respond.
And one I value highly,he cryptically replies.
I have a sudden, kinky epiphany. Placing myself in front of the mirrored wall, I pull my track-pants below my knees. I look kinda silly, staring at myself in the mirror, sweatpants half-mast, but he’s not going to see that bit. Hooking my thumb into the waistband of my undies I pull downwards, exposing a little more than just skin.
I take the shot. It’s not bad; pretty sexy, even if I do say so myself, and more teasing than a full frontal porn shot. My finger waivers not quite hitting send, as I tell myself the image is almost anonymous, and definitely featureless.Unless sent to someone with intimate knowledge of those bits. Besides, his phone now contains much more sexual images that aren’t so unidentifiable. Taking a deep breath, I press send.
Upping the ante? That’s my girl.
One for your collection,I type back.
The little blue bubbles move across the screen, then a moment later, another image appears.
This one I can’t quite make out before it’s quickly followed by another, which makes the first easier to understand. It’s Kai, schmoozing it would appear; the blurry images of figures in the background. Taken from a strange angle, it shows Kai in half profile as he shakes hands with someone, the main focus his chest and outstretched arm. Then I notice the something in the corner of the image, and I understand why he’s sent this shot. Hanging out of his jacket pocket seems to be a tiny fraction of a pocket square. A black, lace pocket square. Or more accurately, my borrowed underwear.
The second image is a lot clearer: Kai’s pants, the image probably taken under a table by his own hand. Light coloured, slim fitting pants, a black leather belt, a slice of his white shirt above. But the rest? The definition of his cock outlined in the fabric—hard? Semi-hard?—and my black underwear trailing from his pants pocket and grazing one muscular thigh.
Oh my god, that’s so bad. He’s flaunting my undies in plain sight! What if he gets busted? What happens if someone says,Hey, buddy. You know you’ve got ladies underwear hanging out of your pocket?What happens if someone suffers a massive nosebleed in that meeting? How would he have looked pulling those out to help?
And, fuck a duck, what will he want from me in return?
I don’t have to wonder long.
