At Mr. Cartwright's Command (8 page)

H
aving Mr. Cartwright intrude on my morning shower is no rare occurrence. This isn't the first time and it's not the last. He's definitely taking advantage of the fact that we both live under the same roof now – despite how huge that roof may be. Sometimes I think he waits outside my door until he hears the water running, but that's kind of crazy, right?

I watch him from the other side of the glass as he strips off his suit and he watches me as the water drizzles down my naked body. He removes his shirt, and the window begins to fog right as he reaches for his waist band – I wipe the condensation away with my hand to get a better view.

He's naked now, just the way I like him, and his eyes look ravenous. He reaches for the shower door, as do I – but before he can move it I shut it tight to keep him out, grinning playfully, and he looks surprisingly amused by my little game of cat and mouse.

“Tamara, open the door,” he says in his usual commanding tone. That tone no longer works on me. Well, for the most part.

He reaches for the door again but I hold it shut tightly, shaking my head and wiggling my finger at him tauntingly. I see him mouth my name again before he gives the door a forceful tug, so much that I can't even hold it shut anymore. Seeing every muscle in his arms flex like that
really
turns me on.

I stumble back, losing my grip on the door as he enters, throwing it closed behind him. He just looks at me for a split second – his bronzed hair falling into his face – before grabbing me by the waist and pulling me roughly against him. His lips crush against mine before I even get a moment to breathe, and his hand travels down to my ass, gripping me hard and holding me in place against his body. His body feels as slick under my fingertips as his tongue does in my mouth. My hand travels up his neck until it reaches his hair. Our wet bodies slip and slide against one another; he couldn't hold me any closer if he tried.

He leans me back against the shower wall and I feel his hand run between my thighs. Something devious gleams in his eye and my breath hitches with anticipation. He props my  leg up on the shower bench before falling to his knees in front of me. I bite my bottom lip hard, knowing what comes next.

He teases me, sliding his tongue over my opening and into my slit as he traces small circles with his thumb on the soft skin of my inner thigh. I reach out, trying to grip something as I feel him then run his tongue over my clit. My hips arch against him as he finds my slit again and pushes inside. Grabbing his hair I bite my lip even harder at the feeling of his tongue thrusting in and out of me. There's nothing sexier than a man who will go down on a woman, unapologetic.

The hum of the shower drowns out my moans. My entire body is wet and now I'm even wetter down below as Mr. Cartwright brings me to my climax. My back collapses against the shower wall as he comes up, but not for long. He pulls me close against his body again, pressing his forehead against his.

His lips part and I feel his breath on mine. “I'm leaving tomorrow. You know that, right?” he says.

I purse my lips. “Oh, is that tomorrow? Sorry, I forgot,” I reply with a coy batting of my lashes. Mr. Cartwright's green eyes narrow and I get really good kick out of that.

“I'm expecting you to say goodbye to me properly tonight,” he says with a raise of his thick eyebrow.

I smirk and reply, “That can be arranged.”

I step back from him and he looks at me oddly, taking me by the hips and pushing me against the cold shower window. “That doesn't let you off the hook right now,” he growls through gritted teeth. His mouth finds the curve of my neck and I feel my body melt against his once again. My lips part, barely audible whimpers emanating from my throat as his hand lands against my breast. He gropes me, twisting his hot tongue against my skin, nipping me with his teeth and I squirm against him. His hands slip under my thighs, hoisting me up and wedging me between the shower door and himself. I curl my arms around his shoulders, holding on tight as he positions himself against me. He slides me down onto his cock slowly – I gasp as I stretch around him, feeling every inch of him fill me and split me wide.

I come to a rest against his body, tightening my legs around his hips as he holds me tightly against the shower wall, resting his chin against my shoulder. Instinctively I wind my fingers through his hair as he begins to rock into me. He's slow and rhythmic in his movements, fully knowing that he's making me want it even more. Rolling my hips hard against him does the trick – I hear him moan into my ear, followed by one long and forceful thrust after another. I cry out in passion but keep up with his every motion, moving with him and bucking against him as he pushes deep inside me. His hands come up to my hair, grabbing a fistful my locks and pulling them hard as he twitches inside me. I clutch his body, feeling him shudder against me as we come together.

I unravel myself from him, placing my feet back on the slipper shower floor. He stays close, his body arching over me and chest heaving as he props himself against the wall by the elbow. I look up at him and his eyes are dark and intense – I can barely read him and I can't tell if he's happy or mad. A hint of both dance in his eyes.

He backs away, holding me squarely in his gaze. “You're getting too comfortable with this,” he says.

“I'm what?” I ask.

He pushes me away from the door abruptly, sliding it open and stepping out of the shower.

“Just be ready for me when I get back tonight,” he mumbles as he grabs a nearby towel.

I lean back against the cool shower wall and listen as he leaves. Mr. Cartwright is like a riddle – a riddle I just can't seem to solve.

*

He told me to be ready for him, but he didn't tell me when. Because I've been ready for several hours now and still no sign of Mr. Cartwright.

Or, as I call it, another day in the Cartwright household.

For some strange reason I thought things would change after I moved in, but Mr. Cartwright is just as unpredictable as ever. But I've gotten a lot done over the last few months – I've learned to swim, I've learned to ride, and I've had plenty of time to study in his extensive library. Next on my agenda is to learn to cook – and not just basic recipes, but fine international cuisine. That is, if I can ever get Evelyn to let me into her kitchen.

But I can't lie, all of this makes me restless. Most people would kill for the life of a rich pampered housewife, and I can't complain, but some nights, like tonight, I stretch across my bed and just wonder what any of it is good for. If I'm on the street next year, no one will care if I can cook filet mignon.

I roll on to my side, my lids growing heavy as I gaze out into the dark night sky. It's past midnight now and the hum of the television becomes more and more distant as I doze off.

I awake what feels like 15 minutes later, jumping instinctively at the feeling of someone else being in bed with me when I awake.

“Shhh, shhh,” Mr. Cartwright whispers, his lips pressed tightly against my ear. My entire body relaxes when I realize it's just him, feeling the warmth of his own body against my back, his arm wrapping gently around my waist.

“I'm leaving tomorrow,” he whispers to me with a yawn.

“Mmm, yeah, I know,” I reply, my voice muffled against the bed sheets.

“Are you going to miss me?” he asks sleepily against my skin.

I giggle and reply, “Yeah.”

He chuckles and I see him smile out of the corner of my eye. He pulls me closer to him, settling in against the bed and holding me tight. It feels good, being cuddled and all. It feels even better when I realize I've never truly been held before.

I exhale, letting my body relax back against his.

“So where are you going tomorrow?” I ask quietly.

He's still and silent, minus the faint sound of his steady breathing in my ear. I shut my eyes too, realizing there are better things than hearing the answer to that question.

*

I wake up a lot earlier than usual the next morning. The sun is still low in the sky and I'm lying flat on my stomach. The first thing I realize is the arm thrown over my back, and for a split second, it startles me once again. I turn to the side to find him next to me – lips slightly parted and perfectly messy bed hair. I bite my thumb nail as I watch him for a moment – it's an odd and foreign feeling, sharing a bed with someone by choice.

I lean upwards, glancing at the clock – it's almost 8:00am, around the time he's usually out of the house so I figure I should wake him.

“Hey,” I say, stroking his shoulder gently. Who knew he was such a heavy sleeper? He doesn't budge, so I jostle him gently until his eyes flutter open.

He yawns wide, rolling on to his back and stretching, still clothed in his slacks and button down.

“What time is it?” he asks as he rubs his eyes.

“Almost 8.”

He groans, arching his back up off the bed before his head rolls to the side, his eyes fixing on mine. He pauses and I see something flicker there, like he's just now coming to his senses and realizing where he is.

“Did I fall asleep in here?” he asks.

“Nope,” I say, shaking my head sarcastically. “I carried your body in from your bed room.”

He rolls his eyes, turns, and throws his legs over the side of the bed. “Very funny, Tamara.”

I chuckle. “Did you at least sleep well?”

“I've slept better,” he says as he fumbles with his shoes.

“Nice.”

“I'm taking off in two hours. It's a good thing you woke me.”

I roll over, stretching across the length of the bed. “Taking off to where?” I ask him casually.

He scoffs, looking back at me while he buttons his shirt. “You already know you aren't getting that answer.”

“Well then, you can at least tell me what you're going
for
.”

“No, actually I can't.”

I roll my eyes and say, “What is it, a top secret mission or something? I already know it's for the agency. Would it kill you to tell me what?”

His nose scrunches and he says, “The agency? No, I don't bother with that thing.”

“You don't bother with your own business?” I ask.

“It's not
my
business. I didn't start it, my father did. He gave it to me for my 18
th
birthday for a damn good reason – it makes my portfolio look like shit, ” he responds bitterly.

My brows furrow; there are so many questions plaguing my mind that I can't seem to articulate one. This is the second time I've heard him say something about his father that's far from complimentary. And all this time I hadn't considered the idea that the CMA wasn't his sole source of income. So as it turns out I know even less about Mr. Cartwright than I thought. And that's pretty freaking bad.

“So what
do
you do, then?” I ask him.

He turns to me and with a sly smile he says, “Work. That's all you need to know. It's rather uninteresting, really.”

I'm pretty sure a job that makes you filthy fucking rich is anything
but
uninteresting.

“Well can you at least tell me why you hate your father so much?” 

He freezes and I see his jaw set. Did I hit a nerve? I seem to be on the right track.

“Don't ever bring him up again,” he says wryly.

I shrug. “It's okay if you do. I hate mine too,” I say quietly.

His shoulders slump a little and he turns back towards me, and for a split second I see genuine concern in his eyes.

“Well,” he starts softly, “consider yourself lucky for not ever having displeasure of knowing yours.”

I'd never thought of it that way.

He turns again with a sigh and picks up his jacket from the floor. “Goodbye for now, Tamara.”

*

“Morning Ronald,” I say with a yawn as I enter the kitchen about an hour later. Mr. Cartwright is long gone by now. It's something I've gotten fairly used to by now, albeit not for such an extended amount of time. I don't get out of the house much, but luckily Ronald and I get along well.

“Good morning, Ms. Pierce. Did you sleep well?” he asks with a friendly smile.

“Indeed I did!” I respond. I stop and sniff the air, the smell of fine baked goods wafting in the air. My eyes set on him dubiously and
I
inquire with some suspicion “Wait...that's not...”

He grins and looks down – I notice him separating and cleaning blueberries.

“You didn't” I state with my hands on my hips.

“Indeed I did,” he says with a proud grin.

Ronald's famous Belgian waffles, that he actually learned how to bake
in
Belgium. There is nothing like them, and I'm pretty sure I gained 4lbs in my first week alone just gorging on them. After that, I strictly forbade him from baking them in my presence. So much for that.

He turns and says, “Since you'll be alone here for the next 4 weeks I thought I would do something special for you.” He picks up a covered plate from the counter and takes it over to the kitchen table. I can almost taste it when he takes the lid off and drops the blueberries on top. “Go on, eat up.”