Take Me Home

Chapter 9 - What To Expect

The room was a blur of shadows and half-remembered dreams as she jolted awake, her heart pounding like a drum in her chest. The sour taste of regret clung to the back of her throat, mingling with the faint scent of Lance's cologne that still lingered in the air.

Vixey heard the shower stop, the silence that followed almost deafening. Lance was in the conjoining bathroom, probably wrapping himself in a towel, preparing to face another day. Her stomach churned with anxiety as she imagined his smirking face, the way he'd look at her with that mix of amusement and disdain.

"Good morning, Vixen." His voice sliced through the quiet, smooth and mocking. She turned her head slowly, dreading what she would see. There he was, stepping out of the bathroom, only a towel around his waist. His hair was wet, droplets tracing lines down his muscular chest, and that smirk—that infuriating, knowing smirk—was firmly in place.

"Morning," she managed to croak out, her voice hoarse. He took a step closer, and her body tensed, bracing for the inevitable insult, the harsh words that would cut deeper than any physical blow.

"Sleep well?" he asked, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "Or did you dream about how good it felt last night?"

Vixey swallowed hard, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing her reaction. "Don't flatter yourself," she snapped, though her voice trembled slightly.

He chuckled, a low, dangerous sound. "Oh, I think we both know who's doing the flattering here."

He moved closer, and she flinched involuntarily, expecting him to strike, or worse. But instead, he reached out, his hand surprisingly gentle as it cupped my cheek. Before she could react, his lips pressed softly against her forehead in a chaste kiss. It was so unexpected, so tender, that for a moment, she forgot to breathe.

"Stay put," he murmured, pulling away and leaving a chill where his warmth had been. "I'll be back up in a minute."

As he turned away, Vixey watched him throw on his boxers and pants with an ease that spoke of familiarity with the act. Her eyes darted away, not wanting to acknowledge the effect his nearness had on her. Downstairs, the sounds of him moving around began, the clink of dishes, the rustle of food being prepared.

Alone now, she sat up, clutching the sheets to her chest. Her mind was a whirlwind of confusion and desire, fear and something dangerously close to longing. Lance had always been a mystery to her, a puzzle wrapped in danger, and yet here she was, tangled in his bed, unable to escape the pull he exerted over her.

Footsteps approached the door, and she steeled herself. Lance reappeared, carrying a tray laden with breakfast foods. He set it down beside her, his expression unreadable.

"Eat," he commanded, sitting on the edge of the bed. "You'll need your strength."

Vixey stared at the tray, then at him. "Why are you doing this?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

He raised an eyebrow, that smirk tugging at his lips again. "Because, Vixey, even I can have my moments of kindness."

"Kindness?" she scoffed, but there was no real heat in her voice. "Since when do you care about kindness?"

He leaned in closer, his breath warm against her ear. "Maybe I care more than you think."

Before she could respond, he stood, adjusting his pants once more. "Finish your breakfast. We have things to do today."

As he walked towards the door, she called out, "What things?"

He paused, turning to look at her over his shoulder. "We're going out. You'll see."