Page 32 of The Games We Play

The only time she saw me was the first morning when I was unaware of her daily morning backyard ritual. I’ve since remained out of sight to avoid any awkwardness, plus I’m not insane. I know my behavior is embarrassingly unacceptable.

I simply justify it by the pure fact that I recognize it.

She’s changed her angle today. Her back is facing me, which is excruciating because every time she does that down dog pose, her round, apple-shaped ass pushes back into the air. The pose shows off her muscular legs, smooth skin, and gives me a preview of what she would look like bent over in front of me.

She’s petite, so she doesn’t have long, lanky legs or a prolonged torso.

Her curvy body is strong and fibrous in all the best places. I could watch her bend and move all day long.

Kneeling on the mat, the muscles in her back contract and she circles her arms over her head. The heels of her feet pressinto her ass as she leans forward in a grateful bow, giving me a teaser of the lace that disappears between her gorgeous cheeks.

She always ends her practice that way, bowing with her hands at her heart.

So I stroke myself faster, envisioning her on her knees looking up at me, mouth wide open begging for my cock. The thought sends me spiraling.

“Goddammit, Mimi,” I grit out.

Fireworks explode behind my eyes, and I let out a groan of pleasure as white ropes of cum paint my abs and spill over my cock.

Jesus, every time is better than the last.

Her shoulders lift and her chest rises in a hefty breath before peeking down at her watch. Then scurries, gathering the items next to her mat as she rushes inside the house.

She is obviously in a hurry. But I’ve noticed that about her.

If she isn’t rushing or running late…well, come to think of it, I don’t know if there is a time I have seen her at any other pace.

It drives me crazy to watch from afar, because nothing in my world operates that way. I know exactly where I’m going and what I’m doing at all times—and I always have ample time to do whatever it is that I need to do.

I am as predictable as the Seattle weather.

She, on the other hand, is like betting on dachshund racing.

In any other person, I would immediately cut them off and not give any shits about it.

With her, I find it…endearing.

God, help me.

She is going to drive me to drink, and I don’t even drink.

Not only do I hate the loss of control, but steering clear of anything my father loved has been myhow-to-make-it-through-lifeguide. It’s the only thing he ever taught me. Inadvertently, of course, because that man didn’t actually try to teach me anything good.

Using a rag to clean myself up, I wash my hands before grabbing my mug and heading downstairs.

Finishing my coffee, I rinse the cup out in the sink and place it in the dishwasher.

I’m already partially dressed, wearing only jeans—which I inspect to make sure I didn't make a mess on myself and, thankfully, I’m good.

I walk into my room and click on the iron. It quickly heats up and I press the button to release a spritz of water and steam as I run the base over the shirt on the ironing board.

I hate wrinkles.

Not only is it ingrained in me—fifty pushups for every one wrinkle—but it looks like shit.

Grabbing the shirt, I shake out the stiffness and throw it over my head, then finish getting dressed.

I peek out the window and I’m surprised to see Mimi walking out of her house not wearing her normal yoga outfit. She still has on leggings, but it’s dressed up with an oversized top that hugs her waist and flows over her upper body. She paired with the deep navy leggings and black leg warmers that wrap around her bottom half. They start at her knee and trail all the way down, hugging the back of the heels she is wearing.

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