Page 51 of Yours Truly

Fired, though? Maybe. I hadn’t thought of that until now. I shamefully spent last night masturbating instead of freaking out. In hindsight, those could have reasonably switched order.

I send a huge puff of air out of my chest, and take the steering wheel again. After a moment of smoother breathing, I roll down the window, turn on my blinker, and get back to it.

I don’t want to be late today, and I have a sneaking suspicion that Trace will be on time.

Normally I like to have protein in my coffee but this morning, my stomach was so uneasy that I didn’t have it. Now, though, I feel sick. Nibbling at the inside of my mouth as I take in nosefuls of fresh air, it hits me.

This is it.

I have to come clean about how I feel for him.

You don’t put your nemesis in a chastity cage.

You don’t stay at an apprenticeship with a man you honestly hate.

We bicker. He’s an asshole.

But I know he’s a good guy. His fractured, unhealed heart shows itself in every second glance, flared nostril and snotty quip. I see his defenses, and understand they were built from pain. I also know that he and I have something rare and precious. I feel our connection in every argument, every moment of pulse-spiking banter. I feel it in the way his eyes linger a moment longer than necessary, searching mine, like he wants to win when we battle but also needs to know that I’m okay. I felt it long before we met, when electricity struck my chest when I looked at his sketches. Truly. I knew it then.

Now I have to make him know it.

Ink Time comes into view, and I have no idea if I killed someone on that drive or not. It was one of those commutes where my mind was so hyper focused elsewhere, I couldn’t tell you a detail of anything if my life depended on it.

I’m driving his car. Obviously my car is already at Ink Time, but I know he’s already there. I can see him inside, standing with his back to the window, chatting with someone. Deuce, maybe. Or maybe the client. Some clients do that—come really early because they’re nervous. Either way, I put the car in park next to my own, take a deep breath and step out. Carefully I place my boot on the door and just as Trace turns, his eyes meeting mine, I thrust, sending the door shut.

It didn’t hurt his precious car, but it might look like it did.

Not a great start to the day where I’m supposed to admit how I feel but just being here again reminds me of last night and how he behaved. He didn’t let that woman blow him but… he called her there.

He drank.

I make a choice for him: he’s done with that bullshit behavior.

Now he has me. And I won’t allow him to fall back to bad habits. He’s too talented and too good for that.

But his car is meaningless. Just like the money. All that shit is only cool if he is. And lately, he’s been a total turd.

I may have some ownership in that, too.

But he started it.

I pull open the door, my nipples hardening at the rush of his pine scent, and the faint notes of shampoo. His hair is down and damp, and he’s wearing my favorite things: black jeans with his brown boots, and a slightly fitted and very worn crop t-shirt from Metallica in 1998. His chiseled, artful arms on full display, leading down to those sexy, massive hands of his. Hands that make me wet just looking at them.

I really wish we were alone right now. But I’ll make do.

I’m glad I brought a change of panties, though. When our eyes meet, heat pours from my slick pussy, and I clench my thighs.

“Good morning, Ivy,” he greets with no smile. He almost seems… detached. But then his eyes skim my bodysuit along the curve of my breasts and the pinch of my nipples. Stopping, I drop my lunch bag, and put my hoodie back on. I’d taken it off after my little meltdown but now, fuck this.

I pull the key on the chain out from the sweatshirt, dropping it over the top, garnering Trace’s attention. He blinks a few times, transfixed by the key until his eyes lift to mine.

“I want to talk to you in private,” he growls, nostrils flaring. I notice, though, while his nostrils threaten me with puffs of air, he steps apart. He shifts on his feet.

And that means things are happening inside that cage. Things that are making him squirm.

I lick my lips and drop my voice to a smoky roar. “I bet you do.”

“Trace,” Deuce says, setting in motion a pre-debated plan, clearly. Trace smiles at me, his eyes roaring with unruly heat, his lips tight with control. A wild juxtaposition but one he embodies well. It enthralls and terrifies me how much I want this man.

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