Page 41 of Big Bad Bully
Monday morning, I show up at Billy’s in an outfit that I deem sexy-functional for both painting and male torture. I’m in a pair of purple overalls with a white string bikini top underneath that looks great against my dark skin. My hair is pulled up on the top of my head, giving him a view of my long neck. I took the time to refresh my lip gloss in the elevator on the way up.
Yesterday, I went crazy with Billy’s gold card, just to fuck with him. I was hoping he’d receive notifications because I made five separate purchases. I can’t tell if he knows yet–I didn’t get any protests, even after I bought and paid for delivery of everything new–drop cloths, paint brushes, and trays, a can of literally every color of paint, even though I’m starting with the black and white mural–ha! None of it was needed. He already has my drop cloths and paint supplies. All I really needed was a can of black paint and a can of white. Maybe some grays with warm undertones.
I try the knob without knocking and, like before, find it’s open.
I pop my earbuds out. “Honey, I’m home!” It was a dumb joke the first time, and it’s even dumber now, but my goal is to drive Billy nuts.
He’s moved the furniture away from the wall I’m supposed to paint, and all the stuff I ordered is neatly stacked beside it. A stepladder leans against the wall. He even removed the sconce light fixture that I was planning on painting around. Or did he hire a handyman to do it?
I spot him sitting at the breakfast bar in the kitchen, sipping from a one-shot espresso cup while he works on his laptop. The cup looks miniscule in his large hands.
Damn, he has hot hands for a Wall Street billionaire. They’re not manicured and pale; they’re large, and they look strong. I’ve never thought about a man’s hands before, but something about Billy’s makes me wonder how they’d feel on my body. I remember how strong he was when he picked me up by the waist. Those fingers could close around my throat and probably choke the life out of me. I imagine the feel of his huge hand spanking my ass.
He barely spares me a glance.
Like last time, he’s setting the tone. The message is that we’re not friends. I work for him. Under him.
Oops. I shouldn’t have had that thought, especially not after perving on his ham-hands. My nipples tighten under the bikini top. Moisture gathers between my legs.
His nostrils flare, and his head jerks up from his screen. He’s suddenly up and moving toward me before I can plan my attack.
My strategy against his attempts to put me in my place is to keep playing it over-familiar. To spread my stuff everywhere. Take over the energy of his space.
Drive him out.
Except that thought doesn’t land right. I don’t actually want to make him crazy enough to leave. I rather enjoy the idea of him being here where I can torture him.
I rather enjoy the idea of being near him all day.
Maybe I should scratch this itch with him.
He arrives in front of me, and some of my breath leaks away. He stands too close. His position is too dominant. The way he looks down with that glower makes me lift my head and stare defiantly back. I wait for some reprimand about how much I’ve spent, but instead he asks gruffly, “What do you need?”
Your hand in my hair.
A hard fuck against the wall.
Whoops. I’m losing focus. Time to put him in his place.
I pop my earbuds back in my ears. My 80’s Monday playlist is still rolling. “Nothing from you,” I say airily and ignore him, spreading the dropcloth.
I feel the laser focus of his stare on my ass as I bend over and pull the cloth long.
He doesn’t offer to help.
I just have to ask. “Did you remove the light fixture yourself?”
He frowns. “Of course.”
“Wow.”
He lifts his brows. “You find that impressive?”
“Well, you don’t strike me as the handyman type.”
He gives a faint shrug. “My father was the definition of toxic masculinity,” he says. “There is no man-job I wasn’t forced to learn by the time I was twelve. Removing a sconce took me thirty seconds.”
Hmm. I find that surprising. I assumed he was spoon-fed with silver and never forced to do a moment of manual labor. I file this new tidbit about him away to chew on later.
