The Boss's Runaway

I nod, because he’s right.

I like him taking care of me. Making the plans.

Tomorrow I’ll go back to making my own, but today I’m tired. I’ve been running for days, uncertain of my future. It’s nice to have the next little while in someone else’s hands.

“Thank you.”

“No thanks necessary,” he says gruffly, backing out of the bathroom.

With his hand on the knob, he hesitates to close the door. I can almost hear his thoughts, his brain commanding him to shut it and leave, but his eyes are on my body and he can’t seem to go. Moving on pure instinct—the new one he’s instilled in me—I grip the hem of my dress and strip it off slowly over my head, letting him see my bare breasts, my naked body, covered by nothing except a threadbare pair of white panties.

“God in heaven,” he growls, the knob rattling in his hands. “Give me strength.”

He closes the door firmly, but I can hear him breathing outside for several tense moments before his footsteps creak back down the hallway. While I’m showering, the hot water soothing the soreness from being cramped in the back of my car, I hear Locke outside of the bathroom again, presumably leaving the shirt we spoke about. I hold my breath, hoping he’ll coming inside and touch me, even just look at me some more, but his presence recedes once again.

A few minutes later, I’m out of the shower. I’ve used his comb on the sink to brush through my wet hair. I’ve even used his deodorant and dabbed a little bit of his cologne on my wrists, just wanting to smell like him. Have him touching me in any way possible. I open the door partway and retrieve a black T-shirt, pulling it on over my head, the hem falling well below my knees, the neckline drooping off one shoulder.

I’m starved for the sight of Locke by now.

My fingers are curled into my palms and every inch of me is sensitized. The heat from the shower did nothing to calm the ache he has created. A throb that has his name on it. I stop in my bedroom to leave my dirty clothes on the bed, then I move on jelly legs to the front of the apartment where I find Locke heating soup on the stove, a plate of grilled cheese sandwiches at his elbow. And I’m nearly overcome by the sense of homecoming. Being home.

More at home than I ever felt on the farm.

His back muscles tense by way of welcome and he sets the sandwiches down on the table. Then he seems to realize something, drawing his hand back slowly. “I only have one chair,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Don’t get visitors often. Ever, really.” He nods at the piece of furniture. “Come on. You take it.”

“Can’t we share?” I ask hopefully.

A long slide of muscle in his throat. “No, Sissy.”

The only way I’m going to get his hands on me is to keep pushing, so I have no choice. Because I’m going to die unless he touches me. I’m sure of it. “Then I’ll stand.”

Locke curses and begins to slam cabinets and drawers, taking out bowls and spoons. He ladles the soup into bowls and puts them on the table, standing with hands on his hips as if he doesn’t know how to proceed from there. “The only way you’ll sit is…on my lap?”

I bite my lip and nod, excitement curling my toes.

“Dammit.” He jerks the chair back and sits down, swiping sweat off of his upper lip. “Come on, then. If I don’t get you fed, I’m going to go insane.”

Unable to subdue my smile, I skip toward Locke, settling my butt on his strong thigh, before he changes his mind. Slowly, he wraps his right arm around my waist and I lean back against his shoulder, both of us letting out a rocky exhale.

“I’ll pick up a second chair tomorrow,” he mutters thickly, sliding the plate of sandwiches in front of me. I’m so distracted by the task of soaking up his heat that I don’t immediately pick up one of the amazing-looking sandwiches. So he does it for me, scooping up half of one of the toasted bread and melted cheese goodness and holding it to my mouth, grunting for me to take a bite. And ohhhhh…

It's so incredible after a day without food that I moan, my head falling back onto his shoulder. “That’s delicious.”

When he doesn’t respond, I lift my head to find him looking down the front of my borrowed shirt, nostrils flared, eyes glazed. The bottom of the garment has ridden up to the very tops of my thighs. So high that some of my bare privates are peeking out. With red cheeks, I tug it back into place. As much as I enjoy tempting Locke, even I know that certain things are not appropriate at the table.