Who gave a shit about cooking, anyway?
Everything about the place served to keep him humble and reminded him of where he could end up again at any time if he didn’t watch his step. The last thing he wanted to do was get used to living rich again. The adjustment from growing up wealthy to being sent to an austere boarding school had been rough, but homelessness had still come as a shock. The way he lived now, the step would be much smaller.
There really wasn’t any reason for him to worry, considering most of his paycheck went to the bank and sat in low-risk investments. Even if they somehow lost the club, he’d have years and years of money left to live on. The problem was, after having gone without as long as he and Will had, no matter how much of a financial cushion Grant hoarded, he never felt safe.
A tendril of hair tickled his cheek and he realized he’d left his hair down, which was something he rarely did. Long hair got in the way and dragged in things and was a general nuisance. The only reason he even had long hair was Arabella. It had begun as a discussion between the two of them about why she always kept her hair cropped so short and she went on and on explaining how much of a pain in the ass having long hair was. He’d grown his out just to prove she was full of shit, but she’d been right. Unfortunately, if he cut his hair she would win the argument, and that was something he just couldn’t live with.
Besides, he could tell she liked it long, and anything he could do to hold her interest at this point was worth the aggravation.
He fell back onto his bed and threw his arm over his eyes trying to think of anything other than the haze of lust in Arabella’s gaze when he’d had her in his lap, pawing at her like a desperate virgin on prom night.
How had he ever not noticed how gorgeous she was, back when they’d met? For the longest time she’d been firmly in his friend zone. He’d had no clue why other Dominants found her so thrilling. For the first couple of years, he’d basically thought of her as a dude with tits. They liked all the same shit. They thought along the same lines when it came to pretty much everything. But unlike some of the guys he used to hang out with, Arabella didn’t make fun of him if he expressed some sort of emotion or weakness—at least, not if it was about something serious. She never used that stuff against him.
Grant had a type, damn it. Tall, blonde, nice rack, a brain between her ears, kinky. Those weren’t that hard to find when a guy owned a BDSM club. Women like Will’s fiancée, Juliet, were what he liked. Hot, but not super-hot-model hot. She took care of herself but wasn’t high maintenance. If Will hadn’t made it abundantly clear she was off-limits right from the beginning, Grant might have given him a run for his money.
Except for the inconvenient fact that he’d already become wildly obsessed with Arabella Dexter before Juliet had even made her first appearance at the club.
How on earth had people not caught on to what was going on between him and Arabella? How could they not know? Their chemistry was so ridiculously distracting he could barely get through an evening of coherent conversation at the club . . . and it had been like that for about a year now. The only one who seemed to have any clue was Varushka, their friend Konstantin’s wife. It was difficult to convince her that nothing was going on when she’d come across them kissing in a back hallway one night.
Then again, Konstantin and Varushka weren’t around much anymore now that they had another kid to take care of.
He closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but his brain was still in overdrive. Sexy little Arabella was still at the club, only a short walk away, and his body had no intentions of letting him forget that.
Groaning, he pushed himself up off his bed, needing to do something with all of his frustrated energy. Ignoring the low thrum of some heavy metal or punk song vibrating through the wall of the club, he flipped on his television and started his workout regimen for the third time that day. Sometimes it felt like working out was the only control he had over his life. Working out and tattoos.
When he realized that push-ups seemed a lot like missionary, he did a plank and held it for a couple of minutes, but ended up thinking of having Arabella underneath him anyway.
He would not masturbate to thoughts of the woman again.
Not tonight.
The worst part was knowing that all he had to do was call her and she’d be at his door in minutes. Or maybe he’d frustrated her enough that she’d chosen someone else to take the edge off this evening. The thought alone made him clench his teeth.
He was sick and tired of watching her play with other men and needed to move the fuck on. Who she played with or had sex with was her own business. There was no agreement between them.
However, no one else interested him. Not at all.
He got up off the floor and grabbed his phone, hoping there’d be a text from her saying . . . something. The ball was in his court, though, and he knew that.
She’d made it plain that the relationship he wanted from her wasn’t something he’d get. And it wasn’t because of who he was, or their relationship, or worrying about ruining their friendship. Apparently, it was because of something she refused to talk about, and it didn’t involve him at all. Something in her past with her previous Dominant. She’d slipped once and given him a first name—Nigel—but Grant had never heard of a Nigel in the area, so he must have been from out west.
Arabella had probably moved east to get away from the guy, and whatever had happened, and she hadn’t dated much since.
He hated that there were things about her he didn’t know. Especially since she knew almost everything about him, including the fact that he obsessed about her.
Maybe he needed counselling. But what would a counsellor say? That he had a complicated relationship with women because of his mother leaving and his stepmother never liking him? That he only wanted Arabella because she was unattainable? That he was being an ass for lurking around, trying to win her heart, or at least put a collar around her pretty throat?
Whatever.
Ugh.
What-fucking-ever.
These four walls were his life outside of the club. Well, one of the walls was shared with the club but that seemed somehow fitting. Nothing was actually his. Not the business, not his apartment, and definitely not Arabella.
Suddenly sick of being inside, he put his phone down and stepped out of his bachelor’s apartment to the club’s back parking lot.
Someday he wanted a place to go where there was fresh air and trees. Maybe a fucking lawn. He used to spend time at Will’s place but it wasn’t as comfortable now that he had a baby and almost a wife. He felt like an interloper where before he’d been more like a houseguest or maybe a squatter with his own key, who’d come and gone as he pleased. Now he felt like he had to call before he showed up.