The Billionaire's Match Is Three Percent novel · Chapter 16 of 24

Chapter 16: Hands on the Rail

On Tuesday I came home at six and threw my boots into the hall.

They hit the wall and fell on their sides, one on top of the other.

The apartment smelled like butter.

Winston stood at my stove in his gray t-shirt, holding a spatula.

Two eggs sat in the pan, white and brown at the edges.

"It's Tuesday," he said, without turning around.

I stood in the doorway and could not say anything at all.

"I've watched four videos. I think I've ruined one egg."

"Which one?"

"The one on the left."

"It looks fine."

"It's welded to the pan."

I walked over, took the spatula out of his hand, and ate the welded egg straight from the pan with my fingers.

It was rubbery and salty and burned on one side.

It was the best egg of my life.

"Well?" he said.

"I'd give it a four."

"Out of ten?"

"Out of four. It's a perfect score."

We ate on the couch with the plates on our knees.

He found a show about a man restoring old boats and put it on.

He said he didn't care about it, and then watched every minute.

Around nine I leaned on his shoulder.

He went still, careful.

I did not fall asleep.

I lay there with my head on his shoulder and let him believe it, because he was breathing so softly.

At ten he turned off the television.

At a quarter past, I sat up.

"Bed," I said.

"You were asleep."

"I wasn't. Go upstairs and take everything off."

He looked at me for one second.

Then he went up the stairs, and I heard the buckle of his belt.

He was waiting on the bed when I came up, naked, on his back.

His hands were already on the iron rail above his head.

The lamp threw gold across his chest.

I stood at the foot of the bed in my T-shirt and my socks.

"Did I tell you to put your hands there?"

"No."

"Did I tell you not to?"

"No."

"Hmm."

I took off the T-shirt, slowly.

Then my socks, one at a time.

Then my underwear, which I dropped on his stomach.

He swallowed.

His cock lay heavy against his thigh, already stirring.

"You may not move," I said. "Not your hands, not your hips, not your mouth unless I tell you to."

"Yes."

"If you move, I stop."

"Yes."

"And you'll want me not to."

"I want you not to already."

I crawled up the bed and knelt over him.

I did not touch him yet.

I traced a finger from the hollow of his throat down his chest.

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