There was some sort of connection between us, something that was both exciting yet comfortable at the same time.
I'd been a lifelong workaholic. I'd always felt more comfortable at the office than at home. Somehow, though, knowing Wynn was there gave me something to look forward to. I'd been cutting workdays short several times a week since she'd started to work for me.
I told myself that it was just because I wanted to watch the cameras, see what show she was putting on for me. There was that, of course. I won't deny it. I did a lot of thinking with my dick when it came to Wynn. It was more than that, though. The house felt more comfortable with her there. It had been surprisingly nice to have someone to talk to, even about banal house shit, or even to listen to her rib me relentlessly about the art in the house.
I'd never shared my life or home with a woman before.
I liked it more than I had any right to.
Especially since she didn't belong to me.
I didn't want anyone to belong to me.
And certainly not one of my employees.
The thing was, though, I'd been reconsidering my feelings on that last point sometime between the pool and the balcony in the foyer.
Sure, the sex was good. And, in my opinion, good sex was a worthy pursuit in life.
But it was more than that.
And I wanted it to continue to be more than that.
I guess I never considered the fact that maybe Wynn didn't feel the same way.
But after the third workday passed after the party with her managing to somehow avoid me at every turn, no matter how relentlessly I tried to catch her for a minute, I guess there was no denying that she was absolutely avoiding me.
But why?
Because she regretted what we'd done?
Or because she was done with me once we'd done it?
Maybe for her it was all about the tease, the chase, the excitement of the lead-up, more so than actually sealing the deal. Once all the teasing and chasing was done, and the orgasms had settled, perhaps it was all over for her. Maybe she wanted to go off to the next conquest.
Unexpectedly, a sharp stabbing sensation pierced my chest at that thought, acute enough to have my hand raising, rubbing at my heart.
"What's the matter, Big Brother, is it shrinking another couple sizes?" Blake asked, waltzing into my study, looking hungover and scruffy. I just barely resisted the urge to ask if he'd gone into work looking like that, knowing it was only going to lead to a fight, and I just didn't have the energy or mental wherewithal to deal with that right then.
"Cute," I said, tone dry, reaching for the envelope he handed me. "What's this?"
"I don't know. Came by courier today. Wynn came to get me to sign for it."
So she would talk to Blake, outwardly seek out Blake, but not me. Her avoidance definitely wasn't all in my mind.
One glance at the label told me all I needed to know.
"Aren't you going to open it?"
"No."
"It's important enough to require a signature, but not to open?"
"Correct."
"Fine," Blake said, sighing. "I'm going out."
"You look like you need to sleep more than have another night out."
Shit.
I regretted it the second it was out of my mouth.
Because within three minutes, as usual, we were all but screaming at each other.
It never took much for us to get to the point of raised voices and dredging up old shit. It didn't matter how many times we'd done it, or how much resentment old arguments had already put upon our relationship. We just didn't seem capable of being calm and rational with each other.
"For God's sake," another voice joined, raised to be heard over ours. "Are you serious right now? Wynn added, standing in the doorway to the study with her hands fisted on her hips. "You sound like a couple of squabbling five-year-olds. You're grown-ass men, for chrissakes. Act like it. The whole damn neighborhood can hear you hauling insults at each other."
"Squabbling," Blake repeated, rolling the word around in his mouth. He'd always been able to bring his anger from one-hundred down to one much faster than I could. "You don't hear that word much anymore. It's a good word."
"Yeah, it's much nicer than 'coldhearted dickhead,' don't you think?" she asked, tone pointed, brow arched.
"I have a... colorful vocabulary," Blake said, giving her one of his boyish smiles that made me want to reach out and slap it off his face. Because it always allowed him to get away with anything he wanted.
I was taking special exception to the way he was using it on Wynn.
Apparently, though, Wynn was more immune to it than others.
"No, Blake. That isn't a colorful vocabulary. It's name-calling. And it's the sign of a weak argument."