Is this my punishment? Because if it is, it’s working. Being ignored by a man who has already ruined me for anyone else feels suspiciously intentional. I’m convinced he knows exactly what he’s doing. That he has a plan. A diabolical one.
Now, I sit at the breakfast table with dirty dishes and crumpled napkins, I rest my forehead in my hands and groan softly.
A thump from upstairs and then the sounds of footsteps tell me he’s done with his shower. I hop up from the chair and busy myself cleaning up from breakfast. I’m bending over loading the dishwasher when he walks into the kitchen looking unfairly good.
Clean shirt. Dark jeans. Hair damp. I watch a drop bead and slide down his neck, and I’m unreasonably envious of it, of the way it gets to trace his skin.
Great. Now I’m jealous of water.
“Do you need help? I’ve got five minutes before I leave,” Carrson says, crossing into the kitchen all composed, like a man who didn’t have a knife at my throat and his hands all over me forty-eight hours ago.
Not that I’m counting.
My eye twitches.
“No, I’ve got it,” I say, wiping my hands on a towel I want to throw at him.
He moves around the kitchen with easy familiarity, grabbing a glass from the cabinet, filling it with water. I watch him the entire time, tracking his every movement.
“Did you sleep well?” he asks, taking a sip.
I stare at him.
“Fantastic,” I say. “Best sleep of my life. Nothing like a looming threat of punishment to really knock you out.”
“I’m glad,” he says mildly, placing his empty glass into the sink.
That’s it.
That’s all he’s going to—
“Oh my God,” I snap, tossing the towel onto the counter. “Are you serious right now?”
His brow lifts slightly. “About?”
“Aboutthis,” I gesture wildly between us. “About the fact that you threatened me, very vaguely, I might add, and then… what? Went back to normal?”
He leans a hip against the sink and crosses his ankles, the picture of ease. “Tell me,” He says, “what exactly were you expecting?”
My pulse skyrockets.
“I don’t know,” I say, even though I absolutely do. “Something.”
A million images flash through my imagination. Ninety-nine percent of them involve him without clothing.
I’m officially losing my mind.
He tilts his head at me, eyes quizzical. “Have you been waiting?”
“No,” I say. Then, “Yes.” I huff. “Maybe.” I give up. “It’s been on my mind.”
He rubs his chin thoughtfully. “Interesting,” he murmurs.
“Oh my God. Stop.” I glare, face hot. “You’re unbelievable.”
That makes him laugh. Actual laughter.
I glare so hard I could burn a hole through his forehead if I had laser vision. Which I don’t. But I really wish I did right now.
