Page 35 of Bred By the Wolfman

“I can clean just fine myself,” I say, a tad affronted by the way he’s judging my lifestyle. I’m a little messy, sure, but it’s not that bad. Maybe not as clean as Robbie is, but he keeps his home unnaturally clean and polished. I’ll never be like that.

“There’s dirty laundry all over your couch,” Robbie points out. “Do you want me to work on that while you do dinner?”

As much as I don’t like the idea of him dealing with my dirty clothes, if he wants to do it... I guess I won’t stop him.

“Sure.” He gathers up the clothes while I start chopping, and hustles off to the laundry machine. I should be grateful, I suppose, that he comes over and helps me out—but it feels almost hostile, like I’m not living up to his expectations for me.

With the machine going, he returns to the kitchen while I get the vegetables steaming. He runs a hand across my hip and down my ass, peering over my shoulder at what I’m cooking.

“Steamed again?” he asks, a trace of disappointment in his voice.

“I’m seasoning it after,” I say defensively.

“Hmm.” Robbie sits at the table and waits while I finish cooking. He pours himself a glass of wine from the bottle he keeps in the house, and I look on it with envy while he sips over dinner. He can do what he wants, of course, but sometimes I wish he wouldn’t do it in front of me, at my house.

He doesn’t say anything about the meal while we eat. I want to ask him if he likes it, but I find I don’t care that much.

While he cleans up, the laundry machine goes off, and I go swap the clothes over to the dryer. When I get back, Robbie’s cleaning more than just the dishes—he’s scrubbing the counters and the cupboards, too. I find myself surprisingly insulted. It’s not like the counters were all that dirty.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“I just thought I’d help while I had the chance,” Robbie says, but I know it’s not just that. It’s judgment, an implication that I can’t take care of myself.

“Well, you don’t have to.” As I put everything away, he looks rather irritated.

“If you move in with me, though, you’ll need to be a lot cleaner.”

I balk. “Who said anything about moving in together?”

He blinks at me like the thought of me refusing never even occurred to him. “Well, we see each other every other night. I thought it might be easier if you left this little apartment and moved in with me at my townhouse.”

Fuck. Neither of us has dropped the “L” word yet, but I’ve gotten the sense recently that it’s coming. Robbie’s much deeper in this than I am, and has even hinted at meeting his parents.

“I like my apartment,” I say defensively. “I’m not planning on going anywhere.”

It looks like I’ve slapped him. “Oh. I thought that would be, you know, the end point of this.”

“Well, it’s not.”

He’s quieter after that as we sit down to watch a movie. That night, I have to focus hard to orgasm while he’s on top of me. Afterwards, I head to the bathroom to pee and clean up, and when I get back, he’s passed out cold.

Part of me, the selfish part of me, wants to hold onto Robbie until I find out whether Russ is an option. And that feels cruel and unfair, but so does breaking up with him when I know it would inevitably hurt him.

That’s probably the biggest reason I should stop this now. If I care about Robbie, I should end it before he gets too deep. And yet, the prospect of being alone again feels even bigger and uglier than that.

Maybe I don’t have to be alone though. I’ve never even asked Russ if he’s single, because at our level, it doesn’t feel appropriate. He’s made it clear that he’d like to be friends, but hasn’t indicated anything else. It makes him feel both safe... and dangerous. I could see myself falling hard for him, but it might not be reciprocated.

I should probably never have invited Russ out with me, but damn if that cream doesn’t work wonders. My aches don’t keep me up late that night like they have for the last week, and I sleep like the dead.

The next morning, as Robbie gets dressed for work, he stops at the front door.

“I know you’re going out at night a lot since you’ve had insomnia,” he says. “But don’t walk alone, okay? I don’t want to worry about you when I’m not here.”

I grumble something in agreement, but it’s not like he can stop me. And I have Boomer.

Around lunchtime, I pull out my phone and hover over Russ’s contact card. I should delete this. The longer we stay “friends,” the more I’ll become interested in him. Maybe I should introduce him to Robbie, and propose we all hang out. That would assuage my fears about going over the line, right?

Who the fuck am I kidding? I want to climb Russ Cohen like a tree.

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