Page 45 of His to Possess
Chris:Gotta go. Teacher keeps looking at me. I can only play the poor crippled kid card for so long before she comes over to make sure I’m working.
I let out a sound halfway between a sob and a laugh. I’m so relieved he still has the ability to make jokes about his condition, but lord, I hate that he has to. And I hate that he didn’t respond to my words about getting him out of there. My little brother doesn’t trust me, and with good reason.
After typing out a goodbye, I sit there in bed for a long time. I’m still lost in my thoughts about my brother and my spiraling mother and what the hell I should do next, so I jump a little in surprise when the chime sounds an incoming text. I glance down at the phone still clutched in my hands to see a message—but it’s not from my brother.
Philip:Food’s going to get cold.
How am I supposed to go out there and sit at the kitchen island with him and Mrs. Higgins and pretend nothing had happened last night?
Philip:I hope you have some delightfully dirty dreams to relive but I’m starving so I need you to get your sweet little arse out to the kitchen. Despite working for me, Mrs. Higgins refuses to feed me until you join us.
My cheeks flush at his reference to dirty dreams but I can’t help grinning like a fool as I type back.
Me:You could solve that problem by fixing your own breakfast, you know. Is a bowl of cereal too hard for you?
Philip:She’s making waffles, love. Only a crazy man would choose cereal when waffles are an option.
Me:Let me guess. She lets you put chocolate sauce and sprinkles on yours.
Philip:fresh berries and flax seed, smartarse.
There’s the slightest pause before the dots start bouncing again.
Philip:She does let me put a smiley face on top with whipped cream, though.
I cover my mouth, snort-laughing hard into my hands. Rationally, I know that the longer we keep this up the more dangerous it gets. Knee-melting kisses and dirty words whispered over the phone are bad enough. But I have a feeling silly, boyish Philip Matthews is an experience I just might not recover from.
Ever since I’ve been old enough to pay any attention to guys, I’ve known Philip was gorgeous and charming. And sexy, too, as I moved into my teen years. But I’m quickly finding the friend’s-older-brother fantasy I built up for so long is no comparison to the real thing. He does have a grumpy side. And the man can be infuriatingly controlling and bossy—
“You want to give me control, baby? You want to let me take over this sweet body?”
My cheeks flush as the memory of those rough words flash through my mind. This would all be a lot easier if controlling and bossy didn’t make me so hot.
My phone dings again.
Philip:Are you still awake in there or did you go back to sleep?
Feeling way more flirtatious—and brave—than is usual for me, I hold the phone out, smile into the camera, and take a picture. When I glance back at the screen, I hardly recognize myself. My hair is a mess and there are crease marks on my cheeks—that part is familiar. My mom used to despair that I looked like a swamp beast first thing in the morning, and why on earth couldn’t I just use the silk pillowcase she bought me?
But the rest of it…My face is flushed, eyes dark with the memory of what happened last night. My lips are redder than usual— I was probably biting them while I thought about him pushing me against the wall. I made sure the angle of the shot showed off a swath of my bare shoulders under the tank top straps and the smallest hint of cleavage. I look like a mess—but maybe, for once in my life, a hot mess? If this picture was of anyone else, I would have blushed, assuming the girl on screen had just been properly fucked.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I press send, then hold my breath.Don’t start regretting it,I tell myself sternly.Don’t start second guessing. You’re allowed to be flirty with a guy you like.Even if he is way older and more experienced than me. Even if he’s probably much more used to waking up with stick thin model types in classy lingerie first thing in the morning.
My stomach dips. What the hell am I thinking? Philip is worldly and sophisticated. He’s a member of a sex club, for fuck’s sake. He’s not going to give two shits about a messy-haired, twenty-two-year-old virgin whose ancient Walmart tank top is fraying at the edges. And oh fuck—what if I had sleep in my eyes? Or drool on my—
I’m about to talk myself into a full-on shame fest when the phone in my hands dings, three times in quick succession.
Philip:Fuck
Philip:Fucking HELL, Lilah
Philip:You are in so much fucking trouble, love.
I swallow, not sure how to take his response.
Me:Why trouble?
Philip:Because you just gave me the god damn hard-on to end all hard-ons while I’m sitting at my kitchen island five feet away from my sixty-year-old housekeeper.
