CHAPTER SIX

I stomped into the office early the next morning, and almost crashed into Melanie on my way to my desk. Pure luck made her manage to put down the coffee she’d prepared for me, before I knocked it out of her hands.

“That’s it!” she exclaimed in annoyance.

“I’m knitting you a red hat.”

I just grunted as an answer and left it for Gray to ask what the hell I needed a knitted hat for.

“One red and one green actually, so your surroundings can get a warning before they cross your path. Red hat for a pissy mood like now, and then you change it to the green one when you’ve had your ultra-black coffee and a Snickers.”

I closed my eyes and clenched my jaw. She couldn’t possibly mean that?

“Since when did you start to knit? When you ran out of granny panties? I’ve heard wool is both warm and ticklish, so it might make you more desperate to get laid. No, wait. I forgot. That’s not possible.”

Melanie blushed like a fire truck and turned to Gray, who looked like he was going to implode with laughter.

“What the hell crawled up his ass?” she yelled furiously. "And why do you allow him to harass me that way?”

Gray just shrugged, still struggling to keep serious.

“I’m not the boss around here. Talk to Quentin, who is.”

She turned to me, fuming like a fire spitting dragon. I didn’t really blame her, but it was funny as fuck.

“This is harassment, Joe. You should be really glad I don’t drag your ass to court.”

“Because you loved my cock too much,” I mumbled to myself. But Gray heard and gave up holding his laughter back.

“What?” Melanie snapped.

“Nothing. He apologizes. Right, Joe? Tell her you’re sorry.”

“Tell her you’re sorry,” I mocked without looking up, and Melanie scoffed loudly and stormed out of the room.

“Okay, Joe. What’s your problem? You got your balls stuck in your zipper again?”

“Ha-ha. Very funny,” I growled and rubbed my face. If only I could get those sounds out of my head.

“Sarah finally got tired of your horny ass, then?” Gray suggested, but I just sat back with a sigh. We had that discussion before.

“We are not dating, and we never will. She’s not my type.”

“Then what is your type?”

“I don’t have any type. As long as they lay on their backs and spread their legs, I’m happy as a fiddle.”

Gray didn’t reply at first. His disapproving look said it all.

“No, you’re not setting me up on any more of those tragic blind dates,” I said before he could speak.

“But I know this really nice girl,” he started. “She’s a friend of mine, and she just ended a long-term relationship. I’m sure you can give her some sort of comfort.”

I turned on my computer and ignored him.

“If you never try, you’ll...”

“I don’t date, Gray! End of discussion,” I cut in.

“And if I tell you she’s bi?”

I stopped and squinted at him.

“Lie.”

“Nope. Her ex was a gorgeous, blonde Australian girl named Serena.”

I thought for a moment and even surprised myself for actually considering what he suggested. Then I huffed and started checking my emails.

“Sounds like you should be the one dating them,” I mumbled sourly, knowing fairly well that he already had a girlfriend.

“Besides, I just need a serious talk with my son, and everything will be fine.”

Gray got curious.

“Your son? What has he got to do with your cranky mood?”

“Not him. Them. Him and his wife are staying at my place for a while, and they’ve been mating like rabbits all night.”

“Ahh,” Gray chuckled.

“That makes sense. Is she hot?”

Fuck, yes! Wait. No! Well, actually...

I shot him a glare, and he drew his own conclusion.

“She is! And now your horny ass had blue balls all night, am I right? Should I call Sarah to make her meet you at lunch time?” he teased, and I would have shoved him off his chair if I sat closer. But I simply didn’t bother to move. What was a bit disturbing though, was that I actually considered it; him calling Allison.

Oh, yes. You’re that desperate. Desperately desperate. Fuck.

“Drop it, Gray,” I muttered.

“She’s a generation younger than me. I could have been her dad. Besides, she’s married to my son.”

“As if that would stop you,” Gray mumbled under his breath.

“Hey. I still have some morals left.”

“Yeah? Where? Your pinky toe?” he commented sarcastically, and I realized that I couldn’t win this discussion.

“Seriously, Joe. You need to find someone. You’re starting to act like my uncle who hasn’t met a pussy in his whole sixty-two-year-old life.”

I blew air through pursed lips. I had sex on a regular basis, often several times a week. I couldn’t be that bad, could I? If only dense idiots could stop pissing me off all the time, everything would be fine. And some pussy would definitely help the pain in my balls. My only problem was the reason I got so horny. I couldn’t possibly get turned on by my son having sex in the guest room down the hall, could I? That’s just disgusting. Nevertheless, I found myself entering the gym so fast that you’d believe the ground was on fire beneath my feet, and my eyes quickly found the woman who would give me some relief.

“Hi there, sexy,” she purred the moment she saw me.

“Do you need to burn off some steam? The boxing bag is vacant.”

“Not that kind,” I smirked and made Sarah blush and walk closer.

“You know I teach Zumba and sports dance at this hour. The first class starts in five minutes. The people are already here.”

“A quickie?” I begged, cursing at myself for stooping so low. She shook her head and giggled, then grabbed my entire arm and clung to it like an octopus. I cringed.

“Head?”

Judging by the pain in my balls, knew I wouldn’t last longer than a couple of minutes anyway. At least she could give me that. But when she turned me down for the third time, I actually considered paying her. Luckily, the tiny flimse of dignity I had left made me gather my senses, and with a huff and a groan, I mumbled goodbye and left.

I stared at my hand.

“Looks like it’s me and you, then.”

But...

When I got home, I was met by a sweet smell of strawberry and vanilla, which immediately made me head for the kitchen.

“Hi. How was your day?”

A flashback to what Gray said about getting a girlfriend went through my mind. This must be how it was to live with one. The idea scared me.

“Fine,” I mumbled. Should I tell her that I heard them and ask them to be quiet? It wasn’t like I could force them to live in celibacy while they were here, anyway. If I were Jake, I’d rather die than stay away from a girl like Bambi. Especially since they were sharing bed every night.

Sharing bed... Stop.

“You’ve got that twitch in your lip again,” she said and smiled.

“A penny for your thoughts.”

Right.

“Just a lot to do at work, that’s all. Where’s Jake?”

“Visiting a friend. They’re planning his bachelor party.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“Really? Isn’t that a little too late? You guys are kind of already married.”

She shrugged and wiped off her hands on a towel. She looked good in an apron. Really good.

“And isn’t it supposed to be a surprise for the groom?”

“I guess. But it’s none of my business. Besides, I can understand why he wants to spend time with his friends while we’re here. It’s not like he can do that when we’re in New York.”

I rubbed my chin thoughtfully.

“But don’t you want to join them?”

She hesitated for a moment, but didn’t meet my gaze.

“Not really. I don’t know them, plus I have to make up my mind about the cake.”

“Hm,” I said and chewed on my lip. Why wasn’t he here to help her? He could hang out with his friends later.

I put my keys and phone on the counter and walked to the oven where the one of the cakes was. The other one was done and stood next to two bowls of whipped cream. One was white and the other was pink.

“Strawberry?” I guessed and pointed at the pink one. And Catherine grinned from ear to ear.

“Strawberry and cream there, and vanilla and cream there. Want to help?”

“Sure. I have no idea what to do, though,” I admitted, and felt a bit embarrassed. It was true. I was a complete imbecile and completely misplaced in the kitchen.

“You can start by washing your hands.”

“Oh. Of course.”

I mentally facepalmed and obeyed my orders. It felt strange. I had never been bossed around before. Yelled at? Sure. Verbally abused? Most definitely. But not ordered around and being told what to do. I wasn’t sure if I liked it. This was my home after all.

“No. Not that way. In a circle,” she said when I put the layer of strawberry cream on wrong. How should I know that there was a specific way to do it? But of course, Catherine had a logical explanation.

“It’s to make sure that the cake will be steady and leveled.”

She said something else too, but my attention was drawn to her tongue when she licked off the spoon she’d used to scrape the bowl. But she missed a spot, and a part of me instantly wanted to wipe it clean.

With your mouth.

“Fuck no,” I said to myself, and Catherine looked a bit startled.

“Sorry. You were saying?”

She continued, but looked at me in a peculiar way.

“That we should finish the other one so we can start with the frosting. I want to try a new technique.”

“Technique?”

No! No, no, no. Not that kind!

My mind went spinning with possible outcomes, one more perverted than the other.

“A new way to make roses.”

“Oh,” I said, and tried to hide my disappointment. And once again I got that strange look.

“Do you mind holding the piping bag while I scoop some cream into it?”

I didn’t answer. I just obeyed order like a godforsaken lost puppy and tried not to show how tense I was with her standing so close. The smell of wildflowers surrounded me, and I listened to her soft voice while she spoke about something I probably should listen to. And when she giggled, I just kept staring at her hands. They were smudged with topping, and it made me want to do things to her that better be left unsaid.

This wasn’t good at all. Maybe I should consider going to therapy for my condition after all? I never did that because it hadn’t really been a problem. I managed pretty well on my own. Until now.

Without a word I watched her squirt some cream into tiny circles, and somehow managed to make them look like crinkled roses. I was mesmerized. She made a different pattern on the sides, and made everything look like a piece of art.

“What do you think?” she said when she was done.

“You can’t eat that,” I blurted out, and didn’t even realize how rude it sounded until I saw her reaction.

“No! I’m sorry. What I mean is that it looks too beautiful to ruin it.”

“Oh,” she giggled, and I saw her cheeks paint a delightful pink.

“Thank you. I still want you to taste it, though.”

She cut the cake with a knife, and it felt like I was hypnotized when she took a teaspoon, scooped up some and brought it up to her lips. I automatically licked my own and probably opened my mouth the same way I’d seen mothers do when they’re feeding their babies.

See, now you’re just being pathetic, you moron.

“Here. Taste,” she said, and held out another spoon. She handed me her plate with vanilla cake and proceeded to do the same with the strawberry cake.

“God, that was good. That’s really good, Bambi,” I uttered, close to moaning, and I watched her eyes widen ever so slightly. It was first then I realized what I’d said, and started to mumble some sort of excuse, desperately hoping that she didn’t take notice of it. But of course, I wasn’t that lucky.

“Why do you keep calling me Bambi, Mr. Potter?” she asked, hesitantly dragging the words. And by the sound of my last name, I was instantly reminded of my rightful place. Lusting for her in an apron and with whipped cream on certain parts of her body was totally unacceptable.