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Strip. Kneel. Bend over. Spread those gorgeous legs for me, pet.
Game over.
Sighing, I continue my pacing. He’s not being intentionally disrespectful. He works long hours and sometimes problems arise at the hotel. It’s just how it is. He did text me earlier. Every single time he makes sure I remember he wishes he could have been here on time.
Problem is, I’m a greedy girl. That’s why he’s been using sex, late-night talks, and soft hugs to pacify me for the past six months we’ve been dating.
And I let him. Not my proudest feminist moment, but fuck it. He’s worth it.
I walk through the tiny apartment, putting things in place.
He’s worth everything. Despite being the youngest man I’ve ever dated—still older than me, though, at twenty-five-year-old, three years older than me, but still—he’s without a doubt the most mature, put-together person ever. We haven’t put a label on our relationship, but he always gives me this forever feeling.
He’s also funny. So funny in that unhinged kind of way of his.
Butterflies fly in my stomach as I remember his crazy, adorable quirks.
Fuck, I miss my muffin.
Swiping my phone from the glass table in the living room, I smile at his texts from the last month.
One of them is a selfie of us. It’s from the night he broke into my apartment while I slept. I’m naked in the photo and so is he. He wanted both of us naked and he took it.
Three other photos are dick pics from another day. He snapped them while he was in my bathroom after he came on the toilet seat, and the text attached to it says: Had a quick lunch break, thought of you, A.
The next is of my pillow from one afternoon that he broke into my apartment. Don’t change the sheets. Sleep on my dried cum. Tonight, I’ll come back to see if you’ve been a good girl.
A smirk curves up my lips. These last four photos were taken while I was working. When only one floor separated us. I was watering the plants in my flower shop, Carnations, and he was here, leaving me pieces of him.
Cutie.
My plan works. My annoyance is no more. I don’t mind him being late. My sweet, psychotic, dominant man.
Giggling to myself like a girl with a school crush, I realize how nutty I must look to the outside world. I usually am, I’m aware. It’s why I bite the inside of my cheek when attending the few walk-ins that visit my shop or the big businesses I work with.
Carter makes it hard not to be territorial over him.
Although when it’s his stepdad looking at him, I don’t really mind.
No. Forget that. I won’t go there. Can’t go there.
“Last-minute tidying up,” I chime to the empty apartment as I keep fixing it.
Talking to myself and cleaning up is a surefire way to get the rest of these pesky, dirty thoughts out of my head. So, I place my phone on the kitchen counter, wash my coffee mug, and leave it out to dry.
Next, my eyes sweep over the living room of my small one bedroom. There are no crumbs scattered on the small, brown rug. No clothes on the gray, worn-out couch that I’ve forgotten to throw into the hamper. No dust on the old TV set, either.
“What do we have here?” I eye the flower vase on my coffee table. “Sneaky dust,” I chide. I had to throw away the old flowers—my poor babies died this morning—and totally forgot to bring new ones up here.
Quickly, I wash the vase and leave it to dry on the kitchen counter next to the mug.
When I step into my tiny bedroom, I find the bed made and the dresser’s drawers closed.
Spotless.
As is my outfit choice. I run my hands over the cream-colored oversized cardigan I have over a white tank top and look down at my dark blue jeans. No creases. Perfect.
It’s as good an outfit as any for another date of drinking coffee and making out. Carter’s always so comfortable chilling under the Brooklyn Bridge or in my living room in one of his many tailor-made suits.
