Page 13 of He Should Be Mine
Molly puts his feet up on the glass coffee table in front of us. Now all of his long, naked legs are on full display. I wonder if he shaves or if he is naturally hairless. It’s not that he has hairs but they are too blond and fine to see. I’ve looked. Very closely. The skin on his legs is pale and flawlessly smooth.
I shovel eggs into my mouth. I should tell Molly to get his feet off the table, but it’s not a battle I can be bothered to fight right now.
“What exciting things shall we do today?” Molly drawls sarcastically.
I don’t reply. He knows just as damn well as I do, what the options are. He can watch TV. Scroll on his phone. Order more useless crap. Read a book. Have a bath or a shower.
If he chooses his damn yoga practice, I’m going to my room. I’ve learned that lesson.
“How about you go on the treadmill and I watch?” he smirks. “Or you can lift weights. That works for me too.”
I ignore him.
“Oh! I’ve got it!” He angles his body towards me and his eyes light up with a very naughty gleam. “We can find out if you are manly enoughto bench press me.”
I clench my jaw.
“Imagine it. You all sweaty. Me on top. Yourarmsthrusting hard.”
“Quit the flirting, Molly,” I snap.
He laughs. “But you love it.”
I take a deep breath. “How about you drop the whore act and we watch the Formula One race like normal people.”
His soft lips pull up in an exaggerated fake pout. His eyelashes flutter. “But I am a whore, and you’re not normal.”
I place my empty plate on the coffee table. It’s going to be a long day. Every day locked in here with him is long.
Suddenly Molly sighs. “Fine, have it your way.”
I look at him in surprise. Is it really going to be as easy as that? He flashes me a smile, jumps to his feet, and takes our dirty plates to the kitchen. He walks normally. No sway to the hips. No sticking his ass out. He really has surrendered.
I guess I was gearing up for a fight and that’s what this strange feeling floating through me is. It can’t be disappointment. That wouldn’t make any sense at all.
Molly comes back to the sofa. He flops back down on the far end. He curls up and gets comfy. I grab the remote.
It’s irrational to hate the distance between us. The gap on the sofa that could easily fit another person. And we both know exactly who that person is. Riccardo. Taking up space when he is not even here.
We watch the race mostly in silence, save for a few comments on various drivers and cars. Molly really knows his stuff. I don’t know why that still surprises me. His encyclopedic knowledge is impressive, but I should be used to it by now.
The race finishes. It only took up two hours. There is still a good fourteen hours to fill.
Molly groans. He wriggles around until his head is where his feet should be and his feet are dangling over the back of the sofa.
“I’m so bored I’m going to die!” he exclaims from his upside down position.
“Ungrateful brat,” I mutter.
“What?” he snaps.
My shoulders tense. “You are a kept man. You get to lounge around all day in luxury, waiting for Riccardo to turn up. And when he does, the only thing you have to do is spread your legs.”
A dangerous light ignites in Molly’s eyes. “You think I just lie back and think of England? You are so very wrong, Sugar. I feel bad for you and all the bad sex you’ve clearly had.”
I close my eyes briefly and inhale through my nose. I will not rise to his petty barbs. I am a grown man.
Molly’s hands go to the waistband of his shorts. “I could show you what you have been missing out on? I could teach you what a good fuck feels like.”
