ILLICIT DESIRES | 18 +

22: Grief

RITA

I am Unimpeded in my Space.

The bedroom door isn't locked. Hesitantly, I leave the room and go downstairs. As I reach the kitchen, I hear a clattering sound before I enter.

I see him there, wearing only his pants, as always when he sleeps next to me. Now, with a clear view, I can't help but admire his toned body.

He's so tall and strong. Masculine in every way, he exudes effortless dominance. I bite my lip, my curiosity drawing my gaze downward, shamelessly following the outline of his pants.

"What a shameless little flower you are, aren't you?" he remarks.

I look up and meet his eyes. Busted, my cheeks flush.

"I wasn't staring — I was just wondering how you are so virile and vigorous if you only eat ready-made meals," I confess quietly, averting my gaze to hide my embarrassment.

"You're quite the nosy little thing, aren't you?" he repeats with a sly smile. "But you won't find the answer in my boxers — or maybe you will."

"Excuse me?" I gasp.

His words are outrageous, sending heat straight to my face.

"Sex can burn calories," he says casually, cracking eggs into the pan. "But seeing how slim you are, you probably need them — did you know sperm is rich in protein?"

He glances at me briefly.

"So... you're always welcome," he adds lightly, "if you want to swallow my cock for protein."

His words are blunt, and I huff indignantly.

"How thoughtful of you..." I snarl, tilting my head, eyes narrowed in contempt. "But I'm not as keen on the precious proteins of your cock as Hoe."

"Jo... her name is Jo, not hoe. That's her job," he corrects me with a grin that makes my stomach churn. He places two ready-made meals on the table.

"How did you notice me when you had your back to me?" I ask, as he drops his butt onto a stool at the kitchen island.

"I could hear your footsteps. You weren't subtle," he says, incisive. The remnants of yesterday's drinking make him look slightly unsteady, though he still commands the room. "Eat."

Not wanting to provoke him, I feed myself, preserving my vitality. "A burger... like the one in my dreams."

"How do you even know SpongeBob? I thought you avoided screens like death," he asks, curiosity piqued.

"I was a child once too," I say, giving him a look. "My father kept my mother and me indoors. When I was bored, my mother used to stick me in front of the television until I was fourteen. It's really not that difficult to understand how I know SpongeBob."

"So you started poisoning yourself with plants — what? After fourteen?" he asks.

"He kept me locked at home, but yeah... the garden was a beautiful place to discover," I remark with a shrug, devouring my burger. "You didn't lock me in."

I take a huge bite from my burger.

My metabolism remains pliable, sparing me from obesity.

"Do you want me to lock you up?" he asks, arching a thick brow. Though it's a question he already knows the answer to.

"No," I murmur, shaking my head. Loneliness tugs at me; even my plants are downstairs. "I won't be a brat, I promise." He always calls me a brat when I don't behave.