
Knowing it was too late, I straightened my back and focused on the door when it stopped, and the doors slowly opened. The wide navy blue entry walls were empty, and my hesitant steps were the only sound to be heard. The door stays open long enough for me to catch my breath before I step out of the elevator. In the centre of the room, a large table with a large white and blue vase holding a bouquet of white lilies fresh into bloom. The rest of the entry carried the same sophistication, with a gold and glass chandelier above the entry. Just gorgeous.
I walk further through the room when the open space brings me into the home. The large floor plan allowed the kitchen and living room the space to build it with furniture and art. In the kitchen, my attention draws to catch the reason I even stood in the room.
Making my way to the kitchen, where he stood back towards me with his hands on the table scattered with papers. Slowly he turned, feeling my presence behind him, focused eyes and a tense jaw taking over his expression. He had no poker face, and worse off, it seemed intentional. Despite his displeased look, there was no denying the dark yet vivid eyes that took me in like a forbidden desire that left me shaken by the simple visual of the man who stood before me.
His white sleeveless vest peaked through the buttons of the unbuttoned black dress shirt while his business pants sat tucked and buckled. Back to my senses, I collect my thoughts and speak, "You moved my mother, and it was not your place." I don't have the luxury of stammering or being shy with my words right now, I can feel it in the tension that threatens to suffocate me, and I will not allow it.
His body is rigid in structure but so smooth in his movements as the loose shirt followed him against the countertop. "Yes, I did move her; she will be more comfortable in the room she is in now." His tone is unapologetic and uncaring of the problem I am trying to address. Why was he not understanding me right now that what he had done blurred lines, ones I had never intended for him to be involved in.
"You are going to listen to me clearly; she is not something you can dominate in my life. My body, my vulnerability, I gave you that. Not this." I had not intended for the words to sound so broken, but he had to know how terrified I had been, how terrified I am. Everything we do felt like a fever dream I wished would never break, and reality peaked through as I opened that room door and found it empty.
I stand tall but feel the emotions of this conversation race through his body as the veins in his arms tighten and his fist flexes. There must have been a list of reactions I could have had, and this was not the one he expected. Looking at me with irritation, he speaks with an almost distant concept of the grand nature of the gesture he had made, "I will not apologise for my actions in assisting your mother, your pride is why you are here. I won't act like I did it selfishly because I did not. I just did it."
I know he is not finished with his words as he walks closer towards me, but I refuse to move, standing idiotically proud. His steps stop when he is but a hair widths length away from me, my knees struggling to keep me up in a stance of the last bit of control I walked in here with.
It shouldn't have, but it feels wrong being so levelled with him right now, but I fight my growing submission towards him as he keeps me locked in his vision. Wrapped in the clean scent he carried, his body daunted over mine before his hand lifted to the strands of hair hiding the bump on my forehead. I had done my best to cover the bruising with makeup, but the feeling of the bruise being visible made me hide beneath my curls. His careful fingers exposed the space so that he could get a better view of it. "You put some ice on it?"
Was he serious? Did he think this was the end of the argument?
Realising that an explosive fight would do nothing at this moment, I nod my head, giving myself a moment to understand him. Considering how he saw the situation, even if his perspective seemed ludicrous. "My boss insisted on it. The medication helped as well. Thank you for helping me last night." The words are faster than their associated images, and the second I look down at the pink blush of his lips, I remember them casting off god in replacement of his title.
YOU ARE READING
Evita's Tale
Fanfiction"My submissive are power, strength, bravery, and most of all they stand beside me willing in their position. You stand as strong as you kneel. Am I clear?" His words, like vows to ourselves he builds submission, not as a position under him by the po...
