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Scrambling up, I grab my phone, searching for any messages from Matthew. But there’s nothing waiting for me, not a word. My frown reflects off the blank screen of my phone as I flick it back on and type out a message, asking how his meeting went with Mitch. I don’t receive a response. Not even after a whole goddamn hour.
I hate it. Hate not having access to him whenever I want.
I should probably volunteer at his school, get in some more time with him.
It’s insane and yet still, I contemplate it. I have done a bit of volunteer work at other establishments over the years, so it wouldn’t be a huge stretch.
Spinning the wedding band on my finger, I phone the school, asking what I can do to help, if that’s even possible to volunteer with a bunch of smelly teens. And delightfully, I’m told that yes, I can assist where needed, but I just need to have a background check completed and my fingerprints taken.
I can do that. I so can. Sure, it’s a little stalkerish when you think too hard about it, but I can’t stop myself from moving forward with it.
I just want to spend more time with him. Plus, I have all this free time, so why not?
While I’m on the phone with the principal, I decide that since they’ve been so helpful, I’ll give a donation to the school. I want to make a good impression and hope that money will make them sing my praises.
Maybe buying some new equipment for their sports teams will do the trick.
Maybe it will get me to him faster.
I can’t stand another day like this, where I just wait for him like a useless sack. Never in my life have I been unhappy with being rich and lazy, but now I feel like I need to do something meaningful, like I need to occupy my time away from him so I don’t lose my mind.
After I hang up with a very happy principal, I begin to make plans—speaking to my lawyers about transferring money to the school, filling out the background check paperwork, and going down to the local office to get myself fingerprinted. Everything on my end is expedited because money works miracles, and by the time I get home and start making dinner, I feel like I’ve accomplished so much.
Not that Matthew has messaged me back so I can tell him everything I’ve done. Damn him, making me pine, making me a needy bitch. I hate this for me. Even so, my frustration doesn’t stop me from wanting to kiss him as soon as he walks in the door. I want to pick up right where we left off, want to be swept away by him.
I’m almost done cooking a spicy Alfredo pasta that I’m particularly proud of when I hear the front door open and footsteps stroll toward me. I know who it is, have memorized his steps.
Matthew.
It’s like over the past few weeks, I’ve become in tune with him, can sense him, can feel when he’s near. Whenever this happens, my cheeks heat, my heart rate picks up. My excitement can’t be contained. It’s overwhelming.
I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself. My eyes shut, and I brace myself just as strong arms wrap around my waist, and I feel his lips on my skin. His mouth drags across the thumping pulse point in my neck, and I arch to the side, giving him better access. God. I’m so fucking gone for him.
“Hey. I missed you,” I whisper, and Matthew hums his agreement.
“Missed you too.”
His lips drag across my jaw and land on the corner of my mouth, but before he can go any further, I pull away slightly.
“You didn’t message me back.”
He sighs, his forehead touching mine, his hands curling against my stomach. “Yeah, well I’ve been dealing with annoying parents all day.”
I arch an eyebrow at the frustration in his voice. “Hm, yes, I can see that. Well, dinner’s almost ready and I want to hear all about it. And when we’re done, I’ll give you a massage and a blow job to help you relax.”
“Fuck’s sake,” he grumbles and then tilts my head up, kissing me firmly on the lips.
It’s scorchingly hot, and I end up nearly burning dinner with how distracted I am. When he finally pulls away and walks toward the island, I’m left blinking after him in a daze.
Hell. I’m so fucking screwed.
With trembling fingers I manage to finish dinner, setting a plate before him on the counter. He stares deeply into the pasta, as if contemplating something and then stands up. He grabs on to the plate and walks toward the balcony. He doesn’t even ask me to join him, he just expects me to follow, and fuck me, I do. It’s become a ritual that I can’t quite seem to put a stop to.
Because he wants to cuddle while he eats. He wants me to feed him.
To take care of him.
God, I live for this. I’m living for him.
