Lost King by Piper Lennox (moboreader txt) 📗

where he goes, who he’s with, and what he does that it shreds my soul until it can’t be pieced back together. I just wish I knew how to stop caring.

“Come on, asshole.” Hale snaps his fingers in front of Callum’s dazed eyes, like that’s enough to get him moving. When he doesn’t, Hale curses, stoops, and throws Callum’s arm around his massive shoulders. I back into the kitchen as they pass.

“Let me go, you fat fuck.” Callum punches Hale’s chest with no effect. “She wants me here.”

“Nobody wants you anywhere.”

I force a smile. He’s just making jokes.

But I also choke up, because there is some truth to it. A lot of truth. One by one, Callum is losing all his friends.

As soon as the Expedition tears out of the lot, I open the door again and remove Callum’s key.

My phone alarm beeps. I’m now ten minutes late leaving for Theo’s. I grab my purse, lock up, and rush for my car.

Callum was right about one thing. While I definitely wouldn’t say I’m “whored up,” my outfit is one-hundred percent suggestive. Under my cardigan and winter coat, I’m sporting a low-cut tank and even lower low-ride jeans.

Not that this is a date. We’re cleaning his house, and he’s paying me under the table so Bayside won’t screw me on the rest of my hours this week. They love avoiding overtime.

It’s definitely not a normal job, though. More like hanging out with a side purpose. Work with benefits.

The first floor is dark when I arrive at the Durham house, save for a single light in the foyer. I test the lock; it’s open, a risk I’d never take in my neighborhood.

On the other hand, not only is Theo’s street objectively safer, it’s also totally deserted right now. Not a single car is parked in any driveway. What few floodlights or illuminated windows I spot are undoubtedly running on timers. It’s like Weekend at Bernie’s, but with the corpses of houses.

“Up here,” he calls from the top of the stairs. I shed my coat and shoes, then stash my stuff in the front closet without looking. I’m more concerned with how my girls look in my bra, and spend most of my walk upstairs repositioning them just right.

It works: he’s speechless for the first five seconds, then stammering through the next five, before smiling and kissing my cheek hello.

“You like this better than the jumpsuit, huh?”

“I can’t decide. You’re underestimating how good you make jumpsuits look.” He winks, then nods at the row of closed doors along the hallway. “Where should we start?”

I pick one at random. It’s easier than cleaning the downstairs. There’s way less garbage, and all we really have to do is change the linens and vacuum.

But there’s something else I underestimated. And that’s how distracting it is to strip bed after bed across from Theo Durham.

Something about a mattress yawning between us, and his muscled arms tearing sheets from the corners (and flipping every mattress by himself), makes me tongue-tied and stupid. I keep picturing him scooping me up and tossing me onto these beds, climbing overtop me, until we’ve thoroughly tested the springs in every last one.

I blame the other night in the pool, more than anything. Plan or no plan, I can’t deny that it was the best oral sex I’ve ever received, and just about the kinkiest thing I’ve ever done. Of course it’s still messing with my head.

Not helping matters: the fact I’ve barely resisted touching myself ever since.

Work was torture today. The seam of my jumpsuit kept hiking up, touching me where it shouldn’t. My imagination took every word I heard, from coworkers or the radio, and twisted it into something dirty.

I think the final straw was when my last client, a new owner in Sagaponack, asked me to clean the windows of her indoor pool. Staring at that water got my entire body aching.

So now, while Theo hefts up the edge of a king, I realize I’ve made a grave mistake by refusing to touch myself to memories and fantasies of him. I’d been afraid of conditioning my body to want more. Now I’m thinking I’ve just created the perfect hormonal storm.

“And...done.” Theo lets the mattress fall with a rush of air. We tuck the new sheets in and ball up the comforter for his dry cleaning service, run the vacuum, then decide the windows in this room are clean enough. Thank God, because there’s about twelve of them.

“This is a gorgeous view.” I step into the corner where the glass panes meet. It overlooks the bay, jutting out so you can’t see the land below. It makes you feel like you’re floating.

In the distance, there’s just one lone, flickering light. It’s either one of the few people left in this neighborhood, or a floodlight on a timer. I hope it’s the latter.

I like pretending we’re the only people on this bay, even if I don’t know why.

Theo steps up behind me. “This used to be my dad’s office. Now it’s just my cousin’s room, when he visits. I never use it.” He pauses. “I don’t use most of these rooms.”

Carefully, I touch the glass in front of my face. I block out that glow.

“My mom used to tell me we need way less space to live than we think we do, and more places to explore than we realize.”

“She’s probably right.” His breath, all mint and heat, wraps around me.

I’m two seconds from turning around and kissing him.

Three seconds from grabbing him through his jeans.

Four from telling him I no longer care if he gets the wrong idea about me or not.

But, thank God, it turns out he was