Until November

Chapter 14

Ben

My first week at Jocelyn's is like Groundhog Day but in nightmare vision. Namely, the couch. I wake up half-on/half-off with my legs curled because I'm longer than it. The new air mattress I ordered is on the way but I'm wondering if Jocelyn's address makes delivery around here more like the Pony Express. I half expect a horse and cart to appear with my new sleeping setup.

The past five days have been hell. Baby bottles, spit-up towels, a diaper changing station near where I lay my head to sleep at night. 

My aching, knotted shoulders add to the discomfort. What's on my mind at four a.m.? Noelle's crying, for one. Jocelyn's thumping footsteps straining my worry that one of these times the ceiling is going to give in. I cover my face with my pillow. I hold my breath for the sound of Noelle to stop crying. There. Silence. My eyes close, my mouth relaxes and I go back to sleep. Thump-thump-thump-slam. Jocelyn's on the move. She's coming downstairs, her footsteps louder and louder, an all-out stomp past the couch. 

"I'm trying to sleep," I gripe, sitting up, bracing my hands on either side of me. A detestable sigh out of my mouth, my gaze severely raking her over, her nipples taut against her thin robe when I imagine what they would feel like dragging down my chest, in my mouth, her body making the entire sleeping arrangement more bearable. 

"Don't care," Jocelyn retorts.

A light turns on in the kitchen. I look at the turned-on state I'm in, glaring at my own weakness, a natural reaction to living with a woman who I would love to have all that anger explode in other ways. "We talked about this. My training comes first."

She snorts. "Tell that to Noelle. And we didn't talk about this," she raises her voice, shaking her finger at me. "You leave every morning. Kind of hard to argue with your luggage and boxer briefs that you left so kindly on the bathroom floor." 

That was an accident, but I say nothing. 

She pokes her head out of the kitchen. "Pick up your Goddamned laundry. Got it?" 

I grumble and stretch out on the couch. Swatting my forearm over my eyes to shield the kitchen light. "No one's ever complained before about my boxer briefs on the floor," I mumble, my breaths serrated by the sudden image of Jocelyn's feminine hands stripping them off me, touching me, staring at me with her cold gray eyes I would work my butt off to see them soft and full of lust. 

Our routine is simple. I'm gone during the day to practice and I stay out of her way when I get home. After we eat separately, she disappears upstairs. I came too close to telling her about things. Things I don't want the press to know about. Or my fans. Or when I look at myself in the mirror. Better for everyone if I don't get involved.

Now we have slamming cabinets and bottle warmers, drawers opening and closing, water running. This place is like a landfill with cranes and machinery. She manages to make running water sound louder. I crane my neck up and jump. Jocelyn's standing at the end of the couch, hands on hips, livid eyes. "Jesus, you scared me."

The light in the kitchen is soft, but her eyes are hard. Her hair is a thick, tumbled mess, and her clothes are loose over her small body. "I'm so sorry," she says with a glare. Whoops. Overstepped my whining privileges. "Did you say you're trying to sleep?"

"No," I quip. "You must have not heard me correctly."

She drums her fingers on her hip, her death stare would be sexy at any other time, but this isn't like she's going to dominate and violate my body in a good way. This is both exacting and scary. "I heard you," she flings back the words at the same time her hands lurch forward and she yanks the blanket off the end of the couch.