I laid back on the couch and tossed my legs over the arm. It was a bit spiteful, but I started at one of the more memorable moments. “So, we were about to get off the elevator, right, and the doors opened to this woman…”
Chapter Six
Nolan
I woke to the sound of my alarm blaring in my ear. Rolling over in bed, I slapped at the devilish contraption until silence filled the room. Groaning, I rolled back over and cursed as the dream of Quentin bending over my counter wearing nothing but that black, lace apron disappeared. I’d been about to touch his pert, round ass, and slide my fingers between his cheeks to play with the hole I knew was aching for my touch when that awful sound had jerked me awake. I glared at the alarm, thinking of all the ways I could destroy it for ruining what had been shaping up to be a hell of a dream.
I thought about trying to go back to sleep to reclaim the dream, but other thoughts were already pushing their way into my consciousness. The first thought that penetrated my sleep-addled brain was that it was Saturday.
Quentin is coming, my mind whispered to me.
Rolling onto my back, I looked up at the ceiling. The sun was creeping in through my bedroom windows, creating a soft glow around the room. I preferred to sleep in on the weekends, but Quentin was coming and we’d agreed to spend the day together going over my list.
Tossing back my covers, I stretched and sighed as something deep within my chest popped. After making a pit stop by the bathroom, I entered my closet and pulled on a pair of loose jogging pants and an old college T-shirt I had. I wasn’t a jeans-and-T-shirt kind of guy, but I wanted to start the morning from the beginning once Quentin arrived.
And that means no shower, I thought as I rubbed the stubble on my face. Glaring at the clock as I passed by my unmade bed, I walked down the short hallway and entered my living room. Sitting on the couch, I eyed the notebook resting innocently on the surface of the coffee table.
For the past four days, I’d made notes about my schedule and places I saw Quentin taking over. It was strange how easy it felt adding Quentin and his needs into my life. When I’d started my list, I’d expected to feel some sort of uneasiness about a lover taking over such domestic and intimate duties for me, but instead, I felt content.
In the end, the notebook had been useless. I’d stopped using it once I’d began to write down everything I did from sun up to sun down. I couldn’t help that I just wanted him with me all the time even though I knew it wasn’t a reasonable expectation.
It just felt nice, being around him. It felt like I was caring for him, giving him the space to satisfy his desires. I was providing for him in a way money never could. I felt… needed.
It seemed counterintuitive. I knew people depended on their servants, but it didn’t feel like I was dependent on him, and in turn, losing any of my independence. It felt like I was allowing him to serve me not for my benefit but his.
I leaned back and tossed my arms across the back of the couch. The past week had been so rewarding. When I’d stepped off the elevator Tuesday morning to see his bright smile, it had felt like a punch to my gut. I had moved across the room and kissed him before realizing what I was doing.
All day, the smiles he’d given me were sweeter, and he’d delivered my coffee with a faint color to his cheeks. He’d even sounded brighter, more engaged when he’d answered the phone. I hadn’t realized how subdued he’d been in order to hide what he wanted from me until he didn’t need to anymore.
We’d gotten a few looks around the office, of course. Quentin had been right about Chrissy Matheson spreading the word about what she had seen. As I’d expected, most people around the office weren’t surprised. My position and attitude made sure no one gossiped about my sexuality—I repeat, words had ways of making it back to me. I’d made it clear in the past that my preferences weren’t fodder for gossip. The few that were surprised obviously hadn’t worked for us for long. The last man I’d dated had come by the office once or twice and I hadn’t hidden our relationship.
A knock sounded at my door, interrupting my musings.
Heart pounding in my chest, I stood and crossed the room. Unlocking the door, I opened it to find Quentin standing on the other side, wringing his hands nervously.
“Hello, Mr. Chamberlain.”
He looked scared. That was until he got a good look at me. Shifting my weight back on one leg, I waited until he looked his fill, knowing what he was seeing. I hadn’t bothered to tame my sleep-tousled hair, the stubble on my face softened my features, and my clothing was as casual as they’d ever get.
That’s right, I thought as his body relaxed, nothing to be scared of said the spider to the fly.
“Come in, Quentin,” I said, holding the door open.
He gave me a tentative smile as he passed by me and into my home. Closing the door and locking it behind him felt so final.
“Coffee?” he asked as he placed his bag on the couch.
“No one makes it like you,” I said, gesturing toward the kitchen, starting as I expected us to continue.
Stepping into the kitchen, I gave him a quick tour. Moving to one of the stools I kept around the island, I watched as he puttered around my kitchen as if he’d done it for years. I hadn’t expected that level of comfort from him. I assumed it was more from the activity than from him being comfortable in my home and around me.
“Tell me about your service,” I ordered as he pulled two cups down from the cabinet by the sink. The cups clattered against the counter, but he quickly composed himself.
“As I’m sure you’re aware after our conversation Monday, I’m not close to my parents,” he said quietly as he moved about the kitchen.
I’d hoped the task of making my coffee would distract him for what I’d known would be a difficult conversation for him. When Quentin had talked about his parents, there’d been an emotionless detachment in his tone. That detachment had disappeared when he’d talked about the servants in his parents’ house, the servants who were his real family.
“While they attended parties and gallivanted around the world, I was raised by my nanny and the other servants.” He measured out the perfect amount of coffee beans and placed them in the grinder. “I thought that that was how everyone’s family worked.” The sound of the machine filled the room as he took a moment to compose himself.
“I used to pretend Mrs. Gray was my mother, and Mr. Stanley was my father. Mr. Sutton was my grumpy uncle, and Mrs. Bird was my kooky aunt. It worked for me. When I did see my parents, it was like they were strangers I had to pretend were related to me.” He poured the freshly ground beans into the coffee maker.
“My parent’s servants—I loved them, and they loved me.” He turned and gave me a bittersweet smile. “Serving just came naturally to me after spending my entire life with them.”
“I understand,” I said softly, my heart aching for the little boy who’d learned to serve from the people he loved to show them love in return.
He turned back to the coffee. “When I was sixteen, my parents put me in therapy with Dr. Henson because they’d thought I was acting out.” He laughed, but it was a hollow one. “I wasn’t showing them the proper respect they deserved as my parents. But to me, they weren’t my real parents. They were just the people who donated genetic material to make me. Dr. Henson helped me to see the connection between my upbringing and my need to serve. I rebelled liked every kid does but it didn’t matter.”