Free Trading Tides by Laila Blake Page B

stick and craned his neck back to check the road behind him. I directed him to the fastest route back to my place. It was still afternoon, just before rush hour and despite the weather, we got through traffic easily as he drove us out into the Croydon outskirts.  
    It didn't occur to me to feel embarrassed by this, but when we came upon the ill-kept apartment building I called home, I felt uncomfortable. I remembered the first time I saw his seaside cottage—I'd thought it small, but sweet, cared for and lived-in. This place had a different kind of vibe, but he didn't remark on it as I led him past the rows of mailboxes to the elevator.
    "I'm not sure I cleaned..." I started when the door shut, trapping us in the enclosed little box, the mirror almost completely obscured by tags and graffiti. He looked at me and I didn't finish the sentence. It didn't matter, none of it mattered.
    "What did you tell them at work?"
    Biting my lip, I looked at the glowing floor numbers as we tuckered along.
    "That I was feeling poorly?"
    "Hmm. Are you?"
    "Uh..." My fingers formed little fists and I took a deep breath. The tone of his voice indicated that he was after more than just small talk, that I was walking on dangerous ground, but I didn't know why or what he wanted to hear. "The plug has been hurting, just a little, Sir."
    He chuckled and his hand cupped my ass just as the elevator dinged and opened up onto the 4th floor. The keys jangled in my hand, it shook while I searched for the right one. He moved behind me, the plastic bag with our food rustling like leaves.
    "Are you nervous?"
    I turned around, the right key resting against my palm. His voice had changed again, and so had his face. He lifted his free hand to brush his fingertips over my cheeks. "Because you know you don't have to be, don't you?"
    I nodded, tilting my face against his touch like a cat.
    "But you're still nervous?"
    "Only... only a little," I managed, pulling up my shoulders. "Only as much as feels good."
    That answer satisfied him; I could tell by the look on his face, even if he didn't answer immediately. He nodded towards the lock and I opened up, stepped inside ahead of him, taking a shivering breath. It was cool in my apartment; I'd turned the heating off for the day and left a window slightly ajar. The curtain fluttered softly when Paul closed the door behind us.
    He put his hand on my shoulder, then kissed my hair.
    "We'll have dinner first, hmm? Why don't you go to the bathroom while I unpack this—you may take the plug out for now."
    He walked ahead like he'd been here before, and I stood there, watching him move between the familiar furniture, looking at the artwork on my walls, running his finger along the kitchen counter.
    "Plates up here?" he asked, turning back to me. I nodded, not sure I could have found the voice to say anything.  
    He was tall and beautiful and he was here with me, amongst my stuff.
    ***
    It was another jolt of pain that finally set me in motion. I closed the bathroom door behind me, then groped at the sink for balance as I kicked off my shoes. I pulled down my trousers, and turned around, trying to see the plug in the mirror. There was a hint of color at the bottom of my ass.
    It shouldn't have required courage to reach for it, but it did.   I sucked a sharp, whistling breath between my teeth when I started to ease it back out. The first bit hurt, but the rest slipped out almost by itself, and my muscles relaxed in a heady sense of relief. A little disgusted, I dropped the wriggly blue thing into the sink and turned on the hot water.
    Somewhere on the other side of the door, I heard jangling plates and cutlery. Still, I couldn't come back out without cleaning myself up, washing my hands, throwing some fresh water in my face and brushing my hair. It made me less shaky, started to settle me into the situation.
    Paul was looking over my CD collection when I came back out. Indian food was steaming on the table, filling the