“You’re here because I don’t think anyone should have to live in what was basically a porn set, unless that’s what they’re into. Amelia or no Amelia. I told you the room is yours until you don’t want it.
“Cora was correct, I only fuck women at their place and never spend the night. If their place doesn’t work, a hotel will. So, no, you won’t have to worry about a woman here. That reminds me, last night was more than a little long and vigorous. Time for me to turn in.” Time for me to relieve my cock was more like it. I make my way down the hall and close my door lightly. Hers closes a little more forcefully. Why the hell had I lied like that? Lying to her wasn’t going to change the fact she was the only woman I had fucked last night and it was all in my mind.
Stripping down, I get into bed and run through the top players of the White Sox and their batting averages. It takes over an hour for my cock to go down, as I think of Holly sleeping down the hall. I’m unable to stop from wondering what she sleeps in, if she sleeps in anything at all.
Fuck me.
Chapter Nine
I want to slam the door behind Ethan, only I don’t want him to know just how much he gets to me. Still, it closes harder than I intend. Tossing myself on the queen bed, it seems enormous to me after tiny single beds for the last two years. I refuse to cry over him again. Refuse to think of him in the bed of some woman last night.
Right now, I have no reason to cry. I’m in a plush bed in a million dollar condo. I’m not listening, and will not be made to listen, to someone having sex only a few feet away. No more walking in on people having sex in the kitchen or bathroom. For that reason alone, I should be a shit load happier, not on the verge of tears.
While there is a small part of me worried about actually living with Ethan, I’m not too worried. I’m used to living in my bedroom. He won’t find me on the sofa with the remote or hanging out in the kitchen, even though I like to cook. I have down pat the ability to cook, clean up after myself, eat and be back in my room within less than twenty minutes.
As I finish unpacking, I’m glad to see the blouses and even the tee shirts aren’t wrinkled, as I feared. I’ve kept my old clothes just in case I go back up a size again, even as I pray I don’t. There are empty hangers in the closet, I hang my tee shirts up. This closet is only slightly smaller than my last room. There are shelves for shoes and I fill them with the most shoes I have owned at one time in my life. As I hang the pretty dresses, I consider actually wearing them, and wonder how soon I can. Early April in Chicago is still cool, the kind of weather to grab a light sweater before going out. I think of Amelia’s bossy attitude in the store and am glad she was. It would have taken me years to buy this many clothes. I also would have criticized myself the entire time I bought them. I’m grateful she didn’t give me much choice.
There is a long, low bookcase and I look at it with longing. Then I do it, I unpack my two large suitcases and fill the bookcase to the brim. Half of them are books I’ve read and couldn’t let go of, the other half are some I’m sure I’ll read some day. Seeing them out, now I feel like I’m home. Whoa, this is not home. This is a stopping point for a little while, I sternly lecture myself.
After spending all day cleaning then shopping and then packing and unpacking I’m feeling hot and sticky. A long hot shower sounds good. I sigh as I look around the bathroom, all white marble. Even with this bathroom half the size of Ethan’s it’s beautiful. It is also a five piece with a separate tub and shower. Although the tub is a deep soaking one, there are no jets. Oh well, I’m so tired I’d fall asleep if I took a bath. While I’ve been in it and cleaned it before, it’s different now that it’s mine to use. Tossing my clothes in the white hamper in the bathroom, I remind myself to check the clothes to see what can go in the washer and what needs to be sent to the dry cleaner. The back of the top says machine wash cold, the same with the jeans.
Ready for bed, I grab a pair of cotton underwear and one of my dad’s old Marine shirts. Settling under the sleek, soft sheets, I cuddle into the puffy pillow, barely able to believe my luck. Oops, I put my underwear back where it belongs. As I do I try to remember how old the underwear is. Holy crap, I cannot remember how old my underwear is. After how much better I feel in the new clothes I promise myself tomorrow I’m going shopping for new underwear. I’ll get some comfy cotton, but I’m going to try new materials like the soft silky bra I’m in love with. I roll over and wonder if Ethan is asleep. Bang! The door closes, none of that. I can’t think of him like that and live here. Right now, I need to live here so, no thinking of Ethan as anything
other than an asshole. Which shouldn’t be too hard.
*****
The alarm on my phone goes off, but when I reach for it, I’m still touching sheets and a comforter. Last night comes rushing back. I’m up in an instant, grabbing the phone, making sure to turn off the alarm. I need a quick cold two-minute shower to get going and am in and out. Brushing my teeth, I frown, I really should have washed my hair last night. I’ll do it tonight. I go into the closet and pull down a tee shirt. I’m glad Amelia bought it, it’s not the weirdly thin ones that have become popular. It’s a thick material in grey with the graphic of Sox interlocking in a large bold font in a fading white, for the White Sox, my favorite team. I pick out a pair of jeans, mismatched pink and purple socks, and put on one of the new pairs of sneakers I got last night. Comfy, for a day of cleaning and running around.
This time before I drop the toast in, I check the setting on the toaster to make sure it’s where it’s supposed to be. Then I go through a repeat of yesterday morning. Everything is done on time. I’m putting his plate and coffee on the dining room table as Ethan walks into the room. His only acknowledgement is a nod as he sits.
Fuck him, I give myself a mental high-five as I head back to the kitchen. I start cleaning everything up, then make another pot of coffee for myself. Dropping in two pieces of toast, instead of peanut butter I go with blackberry jam I found in the cabinet yesterday. His eyes are on me, I look up.
“Made yourself free with the coffee, which is fine. Then you ruin it with half and half, and I’m not doubting a generous helping of sugar.”
I smile sweetly. “Not everyone was born without taste buds like you, Ethan. Some of us actually like to enjoy the things we eat.”
“I’ve noticed.” The bastard says with a raised eyebrow.
Then he’s gone, the front door clicking closed behind him. God, I hate that man. I drink the last of the coffee with relish, then fight to keep from throwing it at the empty doorway. Taking a deep breath, I start to clean up the kitchen again. Then pull everything out for his actual breakfast. Since he’s gone, I turn on the radio, turning it to a pop station. I’m pulling out the pan for his eggs and turning on the burner, swinging my ass with the music, when suddenly it’s cut off.
Straightening in surprise, I look up to see Ethan staring at me in annoyance. “You’re early.” I accuse.
“I strained a muscle. I had to cut my workout short. I’m going to spend time in the tub to work out the pain, until it’s time for breakfast.” His forehead is creased, the pain clear on his face.
“If it’s a strain, the tub won’t really help. I can rub it out for you. My mom did it for my dad then when she got arthritis I did it for him and my oldest brother when he went too hard on the weights.” He looks like he’s about to refuse. I want to smack him. “It will take ten minutes for me to rub out, or a few days of pain.” I’m staring at a point above his head. Holy shit, if I thought he looked good in the plain undershirt with tattoos almost to his wrists, now, with the shirt almost clear from sweat and clinging to his muscled tattooed chest, I’m doing that thing again. Damn him. I’m wet, there, again.
“Fine, let me shower off this sweat. Give me five minutes.”
My legs wobble as he leaves. I lean on the counter for support. Most days he moved so quickly I had barely gotten a look at the knife with blood on his right forearm, today I saw the gavel with the wooden holder on his left arm. Who the fuck knew I had a thing for muscled, tattooed, asshole, manwhores?
I’m sure it’s been five minutes, I have no real idea as I’ve been dreaming about what he looks like without his shirt on. I go into my room to grab my almond oil before going to his room. Knocking lightly on the half-opened door, I see he is lying face down. A little sigh comes out at not seeing his chest. Fuck, is he ripped, his back is a mass of muscle with the scales of justice large on his back. Across the bottom of his back is a wolf lying down with its head up. It feels like it’s looking right at me. I see the White Sox logo up his right side but say nothing. Along his left side is a large, intricate tattoo of Don Quixote, with a small windmill at his feet.
Start talking, my mind screams, stop staring. “What movement were you doing when you injured it?” Okay, good, I don’t sound as breathless as I feel.
“Bench press. My spotter looked away for three seconds. I tipped it to one side. He had to pull it off me.”
“What were you pressing?”