The guard of Theron was standing in the doorway. In his hands he held something like a duffel bag. He came in and set it down inside, and right behind him two more guards carried in suits, a robe on hangers, and a small bag.
I didn't even manage to utter a single word, I simply stood there in shock, watching them lay out the things. Clearly men's. And clearly not mine.
"What are you doing?" I finally protested.
But they weren't listening to me. As if I wasn't even there.. Everything continued as though I were empty space.
"These are my things," Theron said calmly, entering the room.
I was rooted to the floor. What the hell is going on here?
He stood confidently, as if in his own home. And on his face, the expression of someone far too pleased with himself. He didn't even hide how comfortable he was with the situation.
I wiped my glasses, as if that could make it a hallucination. But no. Everything was real. It was obvious I was in complete shock.
I looked at him with a mute question, but he remained silent. Just waited for the guards to finish and leave.
When the door shut behind them, I exhaled sharply and finally exploded:
"What are you doing?" I nearly shouted. "What the hell?"
"I had a rough day. I need to shower," he said calmly, completely ignoring my question.
There was another knock at the door. Theron, like the master of the house, opened it, took the bags with a restaurant logo, and unhurriedly locked the door with all the bolts.
"I'm going to shower. And you, meanwhile, prepare dinner," he said in the same calm, almost patronizing tone, placing the bags on the dining table.
Taking the small bag, he headed toward my shower. After a few seconds, the sound of water began.
Was he serious?
In full confusion, I approached the table and unfolded the bags. Inside was a full dinner for two and a bottle of expensive white wine. Everything was arranged with restaurant precision. I couldn't believe my eyes — and I certainly couldn't understand what was happening. My head was spinning.
The sound of the water flowing from the shower only heightened my internal tension. I was growing increasingly uneasy. I didn't like strangers in my apartment. Even my sister sometimes made me feel like I couldn't breathe.
And yet, unable to stand it, I made my way to the shower. I was ready to put an end to everything. To throw him out. Just reclaim control of my space.
But that step was impulsive. Emotional. And perhaps too careless…
I stood at the bathroom door, not daring to enter.
The noise of the water struck my nerves. My brain tried to find a logical explanation for what was happening, but not a single thought sounded sane. He came. Brought things. Dinner. Wine. Locked the door. Went into the shower. Acted as if it were his home.
I raised my hand and touched the cold door handle.
"Stop this. I need to make him understand that this is already too much."
I took a deep breath and, not letting myself change my mind, pushed the door.
The moist steam instantly enveloped me like a cloud. The space became soft, wavering. Theron, with his eyes closed, tilted his face under the stream of water as if cleansing himself. Water ran down his forehead, cheeks, neck… and further along his broad chest, covered with droplets that ran between the defined muscles. His broad shoulders were relaxed, but I could feel he knew I was there.
The water broke against his collarbones, trickling down his muscles. The lines of his abdomen were clear, as though carved, not showy, not for exhibition. Powerful. Real. Masculine.
He slowly ran his hand through his hair, pushing the water back. Droplets ran down his strong hand, along the curve of his forearm, along his veins. His shoulders tensed slightly — from the movement or… from feeling my gaze.
I swallowed. My fingers curled into fists. I felt naked, though everything was the opposite.
His hips were wide, powerful, every muscle under the skin — as if ready for action. My gaze stopped between his legs. He wasn't aroused. But it was precisely that calm, that weight, that density that stirred me more than any explicit touch. His cock rested in complete freedom, unafraid of being seen, without needing to explain anything. It simply was. And that was enough to throw my breathing off.
He ran his palm over his chest, brushing away water, and again tilted his face under the shower stream, ignoring my presence, as if giving me time to take it all in. And yes — I was taking it in. Mesmerized.
I froze. Everything in me froze. And right then it ignited.
Dryness in my mouth. Pulse pounding between my legs. A desire that took merely a fraction of a second to crush all my arguments.
I should have been screaming, cursing, driving him to hell. And instead I stood there watching. As if enchanted. As if hypnotized. Like a woman who for the first time in a long while was simply allowed to want.
He opened his eyes. Our gazes met.
His look burned into me. Unhurried, not brazen — simply watching. Like he was already undressing me with his eyes. He was slowly soaping up. No haste, no fuss. Just a perfect, living body under the water.
Mirey, pull yourself together. Control.
I repeated it inside myself like an incantation. I had allowed too much. Too many emotions, unforgivably many for someone who had spent years building armor around herself.
And now him. And he had already crossed the line. Entered the space where I was allowed to be myself. Without masks. Without control. Without this damn coldness.
"What the fuck are you doing?" I spat, looking straight at him. Too abruptly. Too honestly. So that he would at least think I didn't like it. Although everything I saw — I liked. Too much.
He stepped out of the shower. Calmly. Without a trace of embarrassment. Wet, confident in himself, he approached.
I took a step back. He — forward.
And again that dance. That damn game.
I pressed my hips against the edge of the cabinet, and he stopped a step away from me.
Cornered. But not afraid. Just furious at myself.
The main thing was not to look down. Not to show how strongly it affected me. How everything inside pulled with desire.
"Why all this?" I repeated, looking him straight in the eyes, not allowing myself to look away. His gaze was warm and dangerous at the same time — a mix of desire and absolute control. He wasn't just looking, he was studying, reading me, as if he already knew which buttons to press to shake my internal order.
He didn't answer. Instead of words — action. His hand grabbed my wrist swiftly, but not roughly. One movement, and I was in front of the mirror, my back to him. His body, still warm and wet from the shower, pressed against me, erasing the boundaries between us.
I pushed against the edge of the counter, feeling how the cold surface contrasted with his heat. He was too close. Too much. But I didn't allow myself to waver. Looking straight into the mirror, into his reflection was the only thing holding me from losing control.
His palms slid down from my shoulders, along my arms to my wrists and back again. Then to my neck, to my chin. He gently lifted it, and his lips brushed my skin. Slowly, without hurry, exactly knowing what he was doing. The kiss was so tender, so unlike him.
I held my breath. Everything inside was ringing. He continued — with touch, not words. His hands went lower, softly and lovingly along my chest, to my waist, and further to the place where my body had long since conceded weakness. His hand slid smoothly and skillfully under my pants and panties, touching the hottest part of me at that moment.
I tried to keep my face calm, not to let myself betray how every gesture threw me off balance. But he felt it. He knew. And he liked it.
His hand between my thighs moved unbearably gently, almost tenderly, penetrating into the essence, into the most sensitive spot. I bit my lip to keep from moaning. My fingers sank into the edge of the counter, leaning slightly forward.
He leaned in closer, releasing my neck, and his gaze through the mirror pierced me through and through. So calm, dangerous, confident. He studied every reaction, every millimeter of skin trembling under his touches.
And then — his voice. Deep, low, almost a whisper that sent shivers down my spine:
"Be a black mouse for everyone else. Unnoticeable, quiet, cold. And leave everything to me. Only to me. Your real self. Your emotions. Your desire."
He pressed closer. I felt his breath near my ear, hot, uneven. And his arousal — firm, undeniable. He felt it all too. And he liked it.
"Don't you dare show this to anyone else. To me and only me," he whispered, nearly breaking his calm.
And suddenly… it ended.
He withdrew his hand. Stepped back. Took a step away. And with that same predatory half‑smile, looking me in the eyes through the mirror, he calmly said:
"So, darling… you can join me in the shower. Or prepare dinner. I am really tired."
He kissed my neck slowly, with pressure, with a taste of mockery and desire, and then returned under the stream of water, as if nothing had happened.
And I was left there. Still trembling, still clutching with my fingers at the cold edge.
Gathering the remnants of self‑control into a fist, I stepped out of the bathroom without allowing myself to look back. I needed to breathe.
I headed toward the bag of food, forcing my hands not to shake and my face not to show that something was still throbbing somewhere deep below my belly. I unpacked the dinner, set the table as if on autopilot, trying in every movement to show that I was fine. Restoring my calm and concentration.
When I placed the glasses on the table, Theron stepped out of the shower. He was wearing only a fresh white robe, loosely wrapped around his wet body. He looked… damn calm. And damn pleased.
I stared at him. Not at the body. At him. Into his eyes. There was ice in my voice, but inside everything was still boiling.
"I heard you don't sleep with your employees anymore," I threw out casually, though what I really wanted to say was: what the hell are you even doing here?
He didn't even flinch.
"No affairs," he confirmed without a shadow of doubt, approaching the table.
He sat opposite me. As if at home. As if his place was here. His plate. His wine. His evening. His me.
"I only do what I want," he added, looking straight into my eyes. "Any objections?"
I didn't answer. Because I only had questions. The main one being: what the hell was he doing in my apartment?
He took the bottle of wine, as if nothing had happened, and calmly went to the drawers. Looking for a corkscrew. His movements were confident, slow. He behaved as though he had been here more than once. Not a guest, not a random visitor — the owner.
I silently stepped closer and opened the right drawer. He didn't even thank me — just took the corkscrew and began opening the wine. I stood beside him and simply watched him.
All of it looked damn calm. Natural. As if it was supposed to be — me, him, a bottle of wine and a set table.
But inside me, everything twisted with anxiety.
I had never liked someone else's presence in my apartment. Even with Derek, I took a long time to get used to him. And here — Theron. A man whom I was supposed to keep at a distance, with whom one should not cross the line.
The surge in the bathroom somewhat calmed my rejection. He wasn't just touching me, he was breaking through my defenses. As if he had long since taken apart my armor into components and now was only confirming: yes, I know where you are vulnerable.
He invited me to the table as though he did it every evening. Poured the wine, unhurriedly. Pushed the glass toward me and briefly said:
"Enjoy your meal."
We began to eat. The menu was… not mine. Meat, salad, wine — simple, home food that I almost never touched. Usually I tossed in noodles, rice, or something that could be heated with one button. I didn't like to cook.
Now everything looked as if we'd been married for twenty years. As if it was just another basic dinner. Him opposite. Me, silently chewing, sipping wine. Plates, glances, wine. All in a circle.
We didn't speak.
But we didn't look away from each other either.
Not a single unnecessary movement. Just eyes. Calm, studying.
And then he said it. Flatly. Without a smile.
"I'm staying the night. You understand that, right?"
I put down my fork.
"Why?"
He didn't look away. I didn't hide.
We could have just had sex, and he could have left. Why stay overnight?
"I want to. Don't forget — your life is mine. So just accept it," he said with that same smile, behind which victory was hidden. As if he had already won all our past and future battles.
Did he really decide…
"If you're worried about Dave, you shouldn't stay alone. Leave one of your people. I'll put a guard in the living room," I offered calmly, making it clear that his sleeping over wasn't to my taste.
"It's not because of Dave. Just come to terms with it."
He got up, gathered our plates. And already at the sink, calmly, almost in a whisper, said:
"Or are you expecting someone?"
His voice remained even. But in his eyes for a moment flashed that very short flame that always reveals true emotion. I caught his gaze. I smiled. There it was — the vulnerability he himself didn't notice.
He truly thinks that now I am his.
Just a new game, a new toy. New body, emotions, character. Until he gets bored.
Well fine. The sexual attraction between us was mutual, denying it was foolish. He would get his. I would get mine.
When it passed — we'd go our separate ways. At least he was more honest than those exes who stole access to my accounts while I slept next to them.
And, to my surprise, he actually washed the dishes, dried them, carefully put everything away and, as if nothing had happened, sat on the couch. Turned on the TV.
A typical picture: he plays family life.
Well then.
I went to the kitchen, finished washing the leftovers, dried my hands and was already about to go to my room, but he stopped me:
"Join me?"
He didn't even look. Just asked. Calmly.
As if he knew I would say "yes."
"All right," I nodded.
I took a book and sat at the opposite end of the couch. He watched the screen. I read the text.
For almost two hours I just read. He didn't disturb me. There wasn't a hint of sex, nor familiar touches, nor "accidental" glances. Sometimes he sat on his phone, occasionally called someone and gave brief instructions. I didn't listen. The TV became background just like him.
I plunged into the text of the commercial code, trying to load my head with numbers and terms to at least distract myself from his presence.
Over time, I began to feel sleepy.
"I'm going to sleep," I said calmly, setting the book aside, brushed my teeth and went to the bedroom. He followed me. Without words.
At some point I caught myself on a strange, quiet smile.
A family scene. Calm. Almost normal.
Here it was, ordinary life. Without bloody confrontations, without drama. Just an evening. Just a man and a woman. Something that had never existed in my life, in my family.
But as soon as he stepped out of the shower, I was already lying there, pretending to be asleep, hiding the smile under a mask of indifference.
Let him do what he wants. I wouldn't allow myself to relax. Not an inch. I would let my body desire. But feelings, never again.
He turned off the light and lay down next to me. Without a sound.
Just a couple of moments passed and he moved closer, pressed up, his hand softly curled around my waist. He settled as if my waist were a pillow for him.
And that was it.
He just… fell asleep.
No kisses. No sex.
He came.
Showered. Ate. Watched TV.
And just lay down next to me to sleep.
I couldn't read him. Not one bit. And that terrified me more… than if he had simply wanted me.
I hardly felt his weight. Only warmth. Only steady breathing.
But it was precisely that silence, that quiet, that control — all of it brought back that old discomfort. I couldn't fall asleep.
Every movement of his, every breath — I tracked it all.
And all this time he still hadn't let me go.