Page 45 of Call Me Mrs. Taylor

“You know what? Fuck it.” He jumps out of bed and picks up his things. I resist the urge to stare at his beautiful dick. It’s hard, because, well, it’shard. Again.

That speaks volumes.

And I like what I’m hearing.

Silently, I watch him dress. He keeps shooting me looks like he’s waiting for the punchline, but there isn’t one. Just the silent walk to my car.

“You didn’t even wanna clean up before you go?” he says, but to no avail. I’m ready to go. Nothing left to say.

He buckles me in, then closes the door, giving me sad puppy dog eyes as I pull out of the driveway.

I’m smiling by the time I get home.

That was kinda fun.

14

Ace

All day long, people have been asking me what’s wrong. And I, the man with all the answers, don’t have one to give. I don’t know what’s wrong.

What I do know is that I haven’t been able to concentrate on work. I’ve been getting shit done, but only through sheer force of will. Ain’t no tellin’ if the shit’s done right.

When I’m back in my right mind, I’m gonna have to go back over all of it.

I’m outside my condo right now, sitting in my car, my grip strangling the steering wheel. I’m conscious of my breathing, forcing myself to regulate my shit before my heart pounds right out of my chest.

“This is fucking ridiculous,” I mutter.

I’m Ace Taylor. Lead engineer on one of the biggest projects in the city. People—I’m talking grown ass men with degrees—wait on me to make decisions. I’m the fucking boss. The one in control.

But it don’t mean shit right now.

Because I’m at the mercy of a woman.

My brain is fucking scrambled, bruh. I check my phone again. Nothing. No missed calls. No texts. No notifications. Nothing from Raya. Nothing at all.

Irritation simmers under my skin. It’s been three days. Three entire fucking days. I’ve called. I’ve texted. I even double-texted, something I swore I’d never do. And still, silence.

She has me on a leash, and she ain’t even tugging it. She’s just holding that motherfucker, dangling it in the air, letting me twist myself into knots while she does…whatever the fuck she’s doing.

Well, I know one thing she did. She posted on TikTok yesterday. Some makeup bullshit. Sat up there looking fine as hell like she isn’t single-handedly ruining my fucking life.

I didn’t even watch that shit. I clicked off before I heard her voice. Well, I took a screenshot of her face, but that’s all. And then I looked at it. A few times. But that’sreallyall.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

I’ve never been this guy. Never. I’ve pursued, but I ain’tneverhad to chase.

Her fine ass put a spell on me.

That’s the only explanation.

I unlock my phone, checking again to see if she called, disappointed again when I confirm that she didn’t. My thumb hovers over her name in my call log, but I can’t go out like that. Not again. I told myself yesterday that I was gonna let her go. They say to let ghosts stay dead, so why try to resurrect her ass?

I drag a hand down my face, my skin hot with frustration. I need help. I need somebody to talk some sense into me before I pull up on her at—fuck. I don’t know where she lives. I don’t even know where she works. Ain’t no fucking Bradley Academy in the state of Georgia. That’s what I wanted to talk to her about the other day.

See, and that should be enough to knock some sense into my dumb ass, but instead, I’m sitting here spiraling.

---