After my run-in with Seraphine wearing nothing but my shirt in the kitchen, I can’t wipe the image in that moment out of my mind. The more I trynotto think about it, the more frustrated I become.
I haven’t been with a woman since Bella passed away, or at least not one thatmatteredto me in any way. Sure, I went on a couple of dates, had sex a couple of times just to prove to myself that I still could. But it meant nothing, and I regretted it afterward.
But something is different about Seraphine.
It was one thing not tofeelanything for someone, but there is something about Seraphine thatcallsto me. I think that is the part that scares me the most. I have spent this whole weekend trying to be a hospitable and neighborly host, and also trying to respect the boundaries between us as Seraphine is my employee. I have tried not to look at her inthatkind of way, the kind of way that makes a bulge swell between my thighs. And I have tried not to care about the things she says that I find myself finding meaning in. I try to shake off the image of her in my shirt, standing there in the kitchen doorway as if shebelongedhere with me.
Lilly and Seraphine seem to be hitting it off, which also worries me. I worry about Lilly getting attached to a woman that won’t be around long. That’s another one of the reasons that I have decided to remain single. She can’t go through any more loss.
By the time Sunday night arrives, the storm is finally pulling out. It was a long rain this time and Seraphine will be lucky if there is a dry spot left in her house. I should have helped her fix that place up before the storm hit.
Tomorrow, we will be back to work at the office, and then after work, I will take her back to her cottage to assess the damage. I am still on the fence as far as how involved I want to get with all of this. Obviously, I will check the house out with her because if it’s uninhabitable (which it likely is) then she will need to stay with us longer—an arrangement that I can already tell Lilly will be thrilled with, but I am not sure how I feel about it yet.
After saying goodnight to them both, I lay in bed restlessly for the third night in a row. Honestly, having Seraphine in the house is causing me more sleepless nights than I have had in a long time. Knowing that she is just down the hall, sleeping in one of my shirts, makes it impossible for me to fall asleep. And even as I try to push the thoughts of my neighbor, myassistant,away from my mind—I can’t. Instead, my hand traces down my torso until I am touching myself just to relieve the building pressure.
With every stroke, I see Seraphine and imagine what it would be like to beinsideof her. I know it’s wrong, at least itfeelswrong, but that doesn’t stop me because the absolute pleasure of it is overwhelming. I harden to my own touch and feel the pulsing flow of excitement as I circle my thumb around the rim of my swollen cock. I give no thought to the fact that she is my displaced neighbor or my company employee—I only think about her as being the beautiful half-naked woman lying in the bed down the hall. The rising angst of being around her so much lately, mixed with all of the uncertain and unexpected feelings that I’ve been having, have reached a point of cataclysmic explosion. At least this offers me a moment of release,for now.
When my body quakes to a satisfactory conclusion, I can finally sleep. And in the morning when I wake up, I intend to put all of this behind me and focus on work and on getting Seraphine back into her house.
But even as I sleep, I am still restless. I thought that relieving the physical desires would help but it would seem that there is more at play here. I toss and turn and somewhere in between sleeping and waking, a thought occurs to me.
I am torn between feelings of moving on and staying absorbed in a past that I no longer have.
The next morning, I wake up exhausted and dreading a Monday filled with conference calls and piled-up work. Seraphine and I go into work together, since she is staying at my house and giving her a ride is the obvious thing to do.
I barely say two words to her before we arrive at the office, and as soon as we get in, Tori can already read my mood. She hops up and goes to make another pot of coffee as I push through my office door with Seraphine trailing behind me. I can feel how super grumpy I am after having not slept well, and I still have all sorts of pent-up sexual energy, even after masturbating. I want to be angry at Seraphine for having shown up in my life and started causing all of these problems, but I can’t pin the blame on her.
Fortunately, there isn’t time during the day for me to talk about anything with anyone at the office, which is fine by me. I much prefer to keep plowing through meetings and client calls and avoid everything else. By the end of the day, I’m beat. But I still need to take Seraphine to her cottage.
The storm has passed, and Seraphine is a tightly wound ball of eager energy in the passenger seat on the ride to her cottage. I can tell that she is foolishly hoping that the damage won’t be as bad as expected. But I know better—it’s going to be bad.
At least the van still looks intact when we pull up. But, as expected, the cottage is unlivable. There is still water pooling on the floors inside, even though most of it has drained out once the rain stopped. The wood is swelling and buckling, the doors won’t even open and close right. All of the furniture and appliances are ruined, and pieces of the rotting roof are caving in. The floorboards are buckling and there is definitely the smell of growing mold, even with the cooler temperatures.
“You can’t stay here,” I say as I watch Seraphine look around. “You can stay with me for as long as you need to.”
She doesn’t say anything to me at first, and I can’t tell if it’s because she doesn’twantto stay with me any longer or because she feels like it isn’t as bad here as I am telling her it is. But then, when she returns from her bedroom to where I am standing at the front of the house, she breaks down into tears.
The only female that I have dealt with crying in the last few years has been Lilly, and a pre-teen girl is much different than a twenty-something woman standing in front of me sobbing. I honestly don’t know how to respond to her. My gut instinct is to pull her close and tell her that everything will be fine, but that wouldn’t be a smart thing to do.
So, I just stand there waiting for her to tell me why she is crying.
“I don’t know how I will ever be able to afford to pay for repairs on the house now,” she cries. Tears roll over her high cheekbones and her face flushes with emotional overload. “I can do a lot of the work myself; I suppose. But I can’t do everything that is necessary. I’m going to need to hire contractors, which I can’t afford to pay.
“Seraphine, I told you that I would help you. I can extend some funds to you to get the repairs done. I’m abillionaire. It’s not like a few thousand dollars matters to me at all.”
“No, I can’ttakeyour money,” she refuses as she wipes the tears from her eyes. “I don’t want to owe any debts.”
“But it wouldn’t be a debt, it would be agift.”
“Same thing. I don’t want to owe anyone forgiftseither.”
Damn, she really is stubborn. Normally, I would give up and tell her good luck going at it on her own. But for some reason, I find that I can’t just dismiss this so easily with Seraphine. Plus, Lilly’s words keep echoing in the back of my head. I’m not just throwing money at a problem this time. I am earnestly trying to help. And yet of course, the one time that I am actually trying to do a good thing is the time when I face resistance. I need to come up with a better approach.
“Okay then, how about atrade,” I propose.
“What kind of a trade? It’s not like I have anything of value to give you in return,” she says as she motions around herself at the wreck of a cottage that we are both standing inside of.
“You do. I will extend the funds you need to make the repairs on your house,andI will come and help you work on the repairs that you can do without hiring a contractor,” I say. “In exchange for you giving Lilly some art lessons.”