Page 25 of Chasing Amber

I don’t even know what the wrong idea is. I don’t know what the right idea is either. But strutting around the apartment with my tits loose under a tank top doesn’t seem like the best option.

I pad to the bathroom, flip on the light, and look in the mirror. I have no idea what my chin looks like. It’s covered with a bandage. I didn’t pay attention to the care instructions, so I’ll have to ask Isaac.

Holy shit.

I lean against the counter and continue to stare at myself.

Who am I?

There’s a man in my apartment who took care of me today as though he were my Daddy Dom. He slid right into the role when I needed him and didn’t waver. I’ve known him for two years. We’ve lived together for a year. We’ve never crossed the line until last night.

I don’t know where to go from here, but I have to hope he doesn’t intend to pressure me. All I can do is find out. I’m hungry. My stomach is growling. I can’t hide in my room forever like I have in the past.

Even my room feels different because Isaac has been in it. Several times now. He also stretched out on my bed beside me because I asked him to. I wonder if my pillow will smell like him.

I shove off the counter, pee, wash my hands, and reenter the bedroom. I look around. It makes no sense, but it feels different, like there’s been a huge shift in the tectonic plates or some other such nonsense. Nothing is going to be the same. We can’t go back to how we were before.

We were never going to be able to go back after what happened last night, either. I’m kind of embarrassed about my behavior and how I stomped to his room and demanded he forget our encounter in my closet and reverse time. Stupid.

But now, we’ve gone much further. There is no turning back. All we can do is go forward. This is going to be awkward. I have so many questions.

Food. That’s what I need first. While I’m eating, I can get a feel of the vibes between us. Like he said,one day at a time.

I shuffle into the kitchen, rubbing my hands together. “It smells good,” I say softly.

He has food on the table, steaming bowls, bread, and one of my favorite treats: strawberries with whipped cream. He pulls out a chair and makes a wild bending gesture as though I’m royalty.

I can’t help but giggle and quickly try to stifle it by covering my mouth. I groan a second later because the stitches on my chin pull.

“Careful, baby.” He holds out a hand. “I’ll try not to be funny.”

I sit in the chair and let him push me up to the table. We’ve sat like this in these same chairs hundreds of times. Why is it different now?

Still standing behind me, he gives my hair a tug, forcing me to tip my head back and look up at him. He stares down at me and strokes my cheek. “Nothing is going to happen that you don’t ask for, baby. The timeline is all yours. Take a deep breath and eat your dinner, okay?”

I swallow and give a slight nod.

He’s still holding my hair, and he bends over to kiss the top of my head before whispering, “Good girl.”

All the blood drains from my face. It rushes to my pussy, causing me to clench my thighs together tightly. No two words have ever affected me so strongly. I’m winded and dizzy as he releases my hair.

It’s madness for him to say that nothing will happen without me asking for it while, in the same breath, he calls me his baby and his good girl. Plus, he kisses my head and strokes my cheek before running his fingers through my loose hair.

I should have put it back up in a ponytail, but I didn’t have the energy to lift my arms and fuss with it. It’s messy and falling in heavy waves around my shoulders.

For a moment, Isaac stares at my hair, seemingly fascinated as though he hasn’t seen it before. I rarely wear it down, but even so, it’s a tumbled wreck right now, so I’m not sure why he’s looking at it.

Isaac finally slips into the chair next to me. He lifts my spoon and hands it to me as though I couldn’t have picked it up myself. He’s silently bossing me around, and I’m unsure how I feel about it. Does he even realize he’s doing it?

He waits for me to take a bite, not looking away until I do. This part isn’t odd. He always does that. It’s like he wants to make sure I’m pleased with my meal before he digs into his.

“Mmm,” I moan around the first spoonful of chicken noodle soup. It’s the perfect food for my mood and how groggy I feel. The bread is warm and buttery. I take a bite of that next. I don’t leave the strawberries for dessert. I stab one and eat it before returning to my soup.

We eat in silence for a few minutes before he asks, “Do you want me to call Monette at the gallery in the morning and reschedule your appointment?”

I glance at him. “Oh shit. I forgot about that.” I shake my head. “No, I’ll manage. I won’t need to wear the bandage, will I?”

“No. We can take it off in the morning. You can even shower. We’ll put some petroleum jelly on it. People will see the stitches, but we’ll make up a story.”

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