I’m almost afraid to answer that.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
KEELEY
The candle flickers beside my bath and I sink down beneath the water, moaning internally, the magnesium salts working their magic.
Thank God for the little joys in life. Like water. In my own damn apartment.
It may have only taken a few days to fix the “little” water issue in my building, but for the last four days, we’ve been advised to keep our usage to a minimum until they can be sure it’s not going to happen again.
And rule number one was no baths.
I’m a rule follower by nature so…easy. Right?
Wrong.
I’ve never been a regular bath girl, but it turns out, if you make something off-limits, I’m like a dog with a bone—obsessed. It’s been on my mind twenty-four seven.
Not only did I call my building manager on a daily basis for an update, I also walked past my bathroom longingly and contemplated breaking the rules, just once, or filling it halfway. Sometimes, I closed the door, hoping for an out of sight, outof mind scenario, or told myself that I didn’t need it, trying to remember that I don’t even like baths that much.
Nothing worked.
I’ve been unhinged, dreaming about this moment. Right up until fifteen minutes ago when I received the email informing me we were all clear. A giddiness ran through me, and I beelined for the bathroom so fast I almost slipped in the hallway.
Then it hit me.
As I turned on the tap, waiting for the relief… it wasn’t the bath I was desperate for.
It was something else even more off-limits.
Sal.
I hadn’t planned on putting myself out there and telling him I wanted more when I walked into his office the morning after he blew my mind. Ihadplanned on keeping my cool, and only checking in.
Until I saw him and that wasn’t an option anymore.
I never expected him to agree.
I assumed my request would fluster him a little, and that he’d give me that stern “Salvatore D’Angelo” look that says, “I’m a billionaire; I don’t have time for your silly little games,” or at least a “Keel-ley.”
What I wasn’t expecting was for him to be agreeable, to ask questions, and go along with my idea to just “see what happens.”
And now I’m the one that’s a mess.
It’s been four days with zero opportunities to see what happens, and I’m so worked up from constantly thinking about it, that I almost gave in and created one.
If I justhappenedto need him late one night, and wehappenedto be the only people still in the office…like last time. Or if my car broke down and no one else was available to help me.
Maybe we— God, I’m going crazy. I don’tneedSal. I have my toys and my hand. What I need is to chill the fuck out. Since when did my next orgasm become something I obsessed over, or even thought about for that matter?
I’ve endured a lot to get to where I am today. I can get through this.
If it happens, it happens.
If not, business as usual. Literally.
My mind whirs as I run my loofah over my arm, up and down, lathering my skin from my shoulder to my fingers.
