"Yeah," I agreed because I did remember that. Along with just about every other word he had ever uttered.
"Lyla is one of those women. She gets off on the degradation. And I might be fine with that for a night, doing whatever the fuck I want no matter how deprave and knowing she wouldn't only get off on it, but demand more abuse. Yeah. It was an alright time. But I'm not into that all the time. I want someone who wants to explore with me. Mutually. And I certainly don't like that psycho chick bullshit she pulled. I never gave Lyla another thought after that night."
"You talked to her at the party," I reminded him, remembering the wave of jealousy I'd felt.
"She works at Marion's. Marion was in the group. She got a couple words in. That was it."
"Why were you yelling at her? You never yell."
"Rarely. Only when it's warranted. Like I said, I'm not into the psycho chick bullshit and when she came in and sat on my desk and spread her legs, trying to pull me toward her snatch? Fuck no. Not having that. I got mad. I yelled. Case closed."
I was pretty sure I flinched at the bitingly honest relaying of events, the image popping into my head unbidden, wholly unwanted, but in bright, perfect crispness. And while it was crass and upsetting, it was yet more proof of the fact that I could trust Byron to be honest with me. Brutally so.
"Bitch shouldn't put her hands on what's mine," he said, sounding like he was talking to himself.
But I heard, and my poor, battered, achy heart lit up in my chest like the fourth of freaking July. "Yours?" I choked out, needing confirmation that I wasn't hearing things.
"Yeah, mine. You've been mine since the first time I put my hands up your skirt and made you come. And you were sure as fuck mine the first time I slid inside your sweet cunt. And every fucking time after."
"What does that mean?"
"I don't fucking know what it means, babe. This shit... this isn't normal for me."
"This... shit?"
"Yeah, whatever it is that makes me lose half my fucking workday trying not to watch you walk around my house in those ridiculous tees and flats and those jeans that show off your fucking perfect ass and... see?" he asked, smiling a little boyishly. "Can't stop my mind from wandering now."
"So you want this to be... exclusive?"
"Pretty sure I covered that a couple weeks ago when I told you I don't share my candy."
"Yeah, but you never said anything about what you were allowed to do."
"Babe... all the time you spend watching me, you'd think you'd see by now that I'm not fucking around."
"All the time I spend watching you?" I repeated, mortification rising up strong and making my face heat up.
"It's cute as fuck that you think I don't notice. But I fucking notice. You usually have two little lines here," he informed me, touching the space between my brows, "like I'm some puzzle piece that doesn't seem to fit anywhere."
It shouldn't have surprised me that he'd noticed. He noticed everything. He'd noticed once when I stubbed my toe really bad getting out of bed and was walking with it tilted up so it didn't hit the floor and send another shot of pain through my foot. He'd noticed when I sneaked a bit of salt in his coffee once to cut the bitter. He'd even noticed the week before when I had my period. Without asking and without me sharing that information.
He noticed everything.
Of course he noticed me noticing him.
"Stop," he said, shaking his head at me.
"Stop what?"
"Over-thinking shit again. You like looking at me. I don't blame you," he said, lips tipping up at one side and it was really the first time he had ever shown a sign of arrogance over his looks. It was impressive actually, considering how ridiculously attractive he was. "Come on," he said when I couldn't think of something witty to say back. He got onto his feet and offered me his hand which I took perhaps a little too eagerly. "Let's get some ice for that cheek."
So then we got ice for my cheek and we went into the den where he flicked on the TV and stopped on Don't Trust The B without me having to say anything, pulling me down until my head was on his lap facing the screen and he put the ice on my cheek.
Things still weren't clear. Not in the completely transparent way I generally preferred with things involving the opposite sex. But it was progress. He didn't want me screwing around and, in turn, he wouldn't either. And when Byron gave his word, it meant everything. So I didn't even waste another minute wondering if he was sleeping with anyone else again. But we still hadn't exactly said what we were. Were we just exclusive fuck-buddies? Did being his imply that we were in some sort of relationship? Did he intend to stop treating me like an employee?