But... yeah, his Barbie-like date made it really hard to not start to wonder if maybe my thighs would benefit from a couple thousand extra squats per month. Or day. Or hour.
I snapped back to the present, cringing at my growling stomach, when I saw St. James stand, help his date out of her seat, and start moving toward the door. I hung back, not sure if he was walking her out to her car which I knew from experience myself, generally meant some necking. But then he barked over his shoulder at me,"My six," and I moved to follow, slowing my pace as I realized he was leading her and, therefore me, upstairs. I sucked a deep breath as he went down the hall and he moved inside his bedroom door, leaning out to remind me in case I was indeed too simple-minded to remember, "You know your place." With that, he shut the door, leaving me standing in the hall.
And, well, yeah.
Everyone who had a brain knew what happened next.
There was some soft laughing (from the girl), some rumbled words (from him) and then the bed squeaking and moans and grunts and, yeah, well... one can fill in the blanks.
At first, I was seething. I was tired, sore, and starving and he was making me stand there and listen to him screw his woman?
But as the moans from the girl got louder and more desperate-sounding, I maybe felt that weird biological response again. Biological. I was only human. It was like porn. No woman in her right mind liked it, but, well, sometimes if it was on and there was the groaning and flesh-slapping sounds and the curses from the men, well, the body responded no matter how much the mind didn't want it to. That was all it was. It was real life porn. And my underused lady bits just weren't listening to my mind which was telling them that, one, Byron St. James while hot and alpha, was a bastard, and two, making an employee listen to you boink your woman was beyond seedy. So I stood there and pressed my thighs together as I tried to distract myself by naming off the states and capitals as the moans hit an ear-splitting level, culminating with a choked call to the lord as I ignored the fluttering in my sex in response to the very intense-sounding orgasm going on behind the door to my right.
It was less than a minute later that I was startled by the sound of the door jerking open, making me scramble away from the wall as my eyes fell on St. James. And, well, hell. He was in a pair of lightweight gray sleep pants slung low on his waist, low enough for me to see the point where his pelvis sloped into the triangle above his cock. A cock which, by the way, was still half-hard through his pants, I noticed with an almost guilty-feeling as I jerked my head up, taking in his abs, glistening slightly with sweat, before my eyes found his face.
His dark eyes were on me. That in and of itself wasn't surprising. His eyes were on me a lot. But there was something different there I hadn't seen before, something I didn't know him well enough to interpret, but it my my chest feel a little tight for a moment. His mouth opened for a second, closed, then opened again.
"You're off for the night, Miss. Marlow," he said, his voice losing the sharp edge it usually held. "Make yourself at home."
With that, he turned back into his room and shut the door with a quiet click.
Make yourself at home?
Make yourself at home?
I paused for all of three seconds to ponder how uncharacteristic that request sounded from his lips before I flew across the hall, kicking out of my shoes and making a bee-line for the bathroom. I had managed a quick pee break while fetching his coffee once that afternoon, but had been holding my bladder since then. I stripped out of the obnoxious, binding clothes and threw on my own normal, cute cotton panties, a pair of silk sleep shorts and an oversize navy long-sleeve Disney tee and stuck my head out into the hallway, listening for any sounds. Hearing nothing, I tiptoe-ran down the hallway, the stairs, and into the kitchen.
The main floor I found completely abandoned, as if the other employees actually had some kind of schedule and weren't on call at all times as I was apparently. I could make out the guards out front when I passed the front doors, but, well, he was rich. That was to be expected. I quickly rummaged around the kitchen, making myself a sandwich and locating a box of granola bars in the kitchen, snagging two and a bottle of water. I figured I could, I dunno, stick a granola bar into my bra or skirt the next day in case of another full day without being given a food break.