Chapter 11: 11

“Sit.” Arrick pushes me down on the long mink colored fabric couch and then scoops down to unbuckle
my shoes. I sink down obediently, lifting cold aching legs as warm hands encircle my ankles, and he
slides down to rest himself on his own thighs. Lifting one foot at a time onto his knee, he unlatches me
from my self-inflicted restraints and sets my burning feet free. I swear I love my shoes, but sometimes
they just kill me. Whoever said fashion isn’t pain is a liar. He takes my shoes and moves off to lay them
on the floor, pulling his jacket from my shoulders and throws it towards one of the armchairs.

“Thanks.” I grin at him sleepily, more than aware he is only doing it as I moaned every step of the way
from his car to the elevator about the agony I was enduring, my tiredness, my inability to stand to be
upright anymore, and then used him as a crutch while waiting in the slow ass thing. I did ask him to
piggyback me to the couch, but he just dragged me ungracefully by the hand instead and told me I was
going to suffer for being dumb enough to get so drunk.

“I’ll get you something to change into. You can take your hooker look off while we talk.” He throws me
that mildly sarcastic smile and walks off towards his room with a backward smirk. I scowl after him, not
amused that he’s insulting Dior and Jimmy Choo in one breath, which is sacrilege according to the
fashion gods, and I hope a serious fashion ‘no-no’ infects his overly precise wardrobe choices. Like
maybe a red flannel lumberjack shirt with mustard corduroys.

Leaving me to slide onto my back on his long comfy couch, I spread out lazily. So glad to finally be in a
calm and quiet setting with a soft, safe place to lie down. I sigh in relief and lift my hands in the air to
stretch out my limbs, very much like a cat who has been allowed back into its favorite sleeping spot to
languish contentedly. I feel so much better than I have been, quiet internally, and stone-cold sober now.

Arrick reappears in seconds carrying a t-shirt and a pair of shorts for me, both will probably drown me,
but I can’t resist the thought of comfy baggy clothes to lounge around. It’s not exactly comfortable being
in my clubbing attire, confined in sexy tightness, where I must watch every movement for fear of



exposing something he doesn’t want to see. I take them from him, still lying down, and watch him walk
off to the kitchen until I lose sight of him due to the backrest of the chair obscuring the view.

“Don’t look, I’m stripping here.” I call out, hearing the clanging of mugs as he starts rifling around to
make coffee and turns on his stupidly expensive machine.

“I’m facing the other way … knock yourself out.” He calls back and I peek up to double check, seeing
only the back of his dark t-shirt clad shoulders as he leans in to fill the coffee maker. The strong neck
and short hair that just makes him super appealing from this angle.

I struggle and shimmy quickly to get my top and skirt off, while staying laid down, and pull the others on
quickly. I pick up my discarded clothes and toss them towards the nearby armchair where his jacket
already sits. It feels better to be loosely dressed, although without the tight confines of the top and
being braless it feels a little too loose and breezy. I roll onto my stomach, pulling one of his suede
cushions below me and stretch out, lying my head down on the side of my face and sink in contentedly.
I sigh heavily and inhale the familiar smells of this apartment.

“All done.” I yell out and get no response, another stretch up, and a peek from my strained position, I
spot him crouching down with his head in a cupboard looking for something. I flop back down to leave
him to it. I can hear more noise as he does whatever he’s doing, clattering, banging and such, and
finally the percolating splutters of his machine starting up.

“You decent? I’m coming back.” He waits a second until I reply with an ‘uhuh’ before coming back to
join me on the comfy seating. His couch is nestled in front of a long, low rustic table and each side is
flanked by overstuffed, aged leather armchairs. The whole wall between his two-bedroom doors
houses a large rustic wooden built-in that holds all his technology, and even a huge gas fireplace below
his massive TV screen. The absolute best place in the world to sit and chill. Perfectly male, yet
somehow cozy and homely.



I’ve always loved this apartment; it’s not crazily huge and overly opulent, yet it’s spacious and has a lot
of room to spread out. Arrick tends to like the simpler things in life. Less inflated than his father and
brother and tends to go for low key, understated. Although this place probably still costs him an arm
and leg to rent or even if he has bought it by now. No one would know by the sort of masculine, urban
loft apartment that he is worth billions as joint heir to his family’s corporation. Joint partner in so many
ventures and earning his own income too.

Arrick would never need to work in his life again if he chose not to, he could afford to never do anything
except party or relax. I like the fact that he chooses to though, chooses to be a mere mortal guy you
could walk past in the street without even realizing; except that he’s hot. You wouldn’t walk past if you
were a hot-blooded woman, or a gay dude, without noticing him, even I can appreciate that.

“Machine takes like twenty minutes.” He slides down, lifting my legs so he can sit down and pulls them
back on top of his lap, automatically massaging my sore feet for me with strong warm hands that are
divine. Arrick gives the best foot rubs in the history of all that is holy; he always did. He has the magic
hands of a sorcerer when it comes to all kinds of rubs. His shoulder rub is about the only thing in the
world that can send me to sleep in under a minute. If it didn’t weird him out so much, I would happily
strip naked and let him massage every square inch of me until I was out cold and snoring. He has
those strong man hands that are made for either manual labor or really good full body massages. I told
him once that he could get a job in a spa if the business ever went tits up and he found himself
penniless that I would be his number one customer.

“I think I might just sleep here.” I sigh heavily, completely homed in on what he’s doing, relaxing fully
into that trained manipulation of muscles that feels insanely good. Every nerve ending in my body
waking up to the sensations from my feet. I can relax in feeling completely content, no crazy empty
feelings or anxious desperate pangs. Just silence.

“We agreed to talk some more before you go to bed, that’s what we’re going to do.” He slaps my ass,
stinging enough to get a flinch, as though to wake me up. “Turn over; I want to see you when I’m



talking to you.” He commands and I do so obediently, rolling over to flop onto my back instead, using
the cushion under my head so I can regard him lazily, and nudge at him in the chest with my foot to
remind him of what he’d expertly been doing. He goes back to rubbing my feet with a smile and a
noticeable sigh, running a thumb in the ditch under my toes sensually to make me giggle.

“I forgot how good you are at that.” I smile at him innocently, wiggling my toes so he’ll do it again. He
shakes his head with that cute half-smile that sends him into dimple overload and does it again, only
this time so much more slowly to tickle me more. I curl my feet in response and tense up, laughing
when he tries to unfurl my toes to set his thumb free again.

“I forgot what time alone with you was like.” He frowns at me for a moment and sighs. “Forgot how you
can be when you sober up.” He gazes more wistfully at me this time and then returns to moving his
thumbs into the arch of my foot with some pressure. There’s a serious expression on that handsome
face and I get the inner guilt thing going off again, hating that he’s even thinking this way.

“Yeah, well get used to seeing more of sober me. I’m so done with this existence. I want to feel normal
again.” I lift another scatter cushion, pulling it onto my chest, and play with the zip in an effort to get
more comfortable and conceal the obvious lack of a bra. Arrick continues frowning at my soles,
seemingly intent on removing the burning pain I have been experiencing and really getting the knots
out.

“Are you hungry? I’m starving! I was supposed to be at dinner now, a late one with Tasha.” He glances
my way, catches my eye, and cutely furrows his brows at me.

‘’I’m sorry. You can still go and leave me here. I promise I’ll just go to bed while you salvage your dinner
plans. Go … I mean it.” I urge him warily, watching the lack of change in his expression, just intent on
what he’s doing, and he shrugs with one shoulder as if to dismiss my suggestion. I feel worse than bad
knowing he ruined his whole night to come scrape me off a club floor. Again.




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