Page 16 of The Games We Play (Balance of Power #3)
SEAMUS
Present Day
T hese past few mornings I’ve been waking up with a renewed vigor on life.
I succeeded last week in the goal of making my presence known and why, but still managed to play a little hard to get, knowing that will probably pique her interest. Keeping my distance this past week, although painfully difficult, is needed to maintain that enigma.
I sensed her attraction to me, just like it’s undeniable to control mine when I’m around her. But seeing the way she looked at me, her eyes slightly softening behind the angry squint, as I walked over the front of her house was a silent acceptance of my presence here.
Sure, she might be pissed I moved in next door, and she might be upset at how things ended between us—which we clearly have two different viewpoints on—but her body can’t help but react to mine. I could feel how much she wanted me that night.
I should have leaned in, kissed her, and made her remember how good we were, but I wouldn’t have been able to stop once I started. Plus, the patience I’ve learned over the course of my life is my signature trait, and I want her to give in to me first.
Can’t say she isn’t testing me, though. I would have assumed she would have been knocking on my door by now.
But fuck, she’s as stubborn—or driven—as I am.
Walking upstairs with my coffee in hand, I head straight over to the window that overlooks the backyard.
At first, taking a moment to enjoy the view was just something I did out of habit. Something I’ve always done in any home I’ve lived in.
After spending years in barracks or living in tents in the most undesirable locations, I appreciate when I have a view through a window. Regardless of what that view is.
Seattle isn’t known for sunny, blue skies and great weather.
In fact, it’s pretty fucking drab. The sky's the most depressing shade of gray, sprinkled with clouds that rival the same color palette.
And although the downtown skyline is pretty spectacular, you can only see the buildings on a clear day, which is few and far between.
However, the view from this window?
Priceless.
Worth every overpriced penny I paid for the off market offer I made for this house.
Why? Because a certain goddess who brings her own sunshine into every living, breathing moment, practices yoga in her backyard wearing nothing but a sports bra and lace underwear.
Every. Fucking. Morning.
Sometimes it’s ten minutes. Sometimes it's an hour. I suppose it’s based on how much time she has.
Do I watch her the entire time?
No, of course not.
Not the entire time.
I mean, I do have to blink .
Regardless of how long her practice is, my jerk off session mirrors hers.
Every morning I watch with appreciation. The way the lace disappears between her ass cheeks. How her breasts push together in certain poses. The way her chest rises and falls with each breath. Observing her strong arms hold her body up in these gorgeous displays of balance and strength.
What starts as a mesmerizing display of physical art turns into a desire I can’t control. I grip my hard cock, stroking it from the base to the tip, rounding my hand over the sensitive tip. And, as usual, she gets me there way too fast.
As unpredictable as her schedule is, it doesn’t matter if she spends ten minutes stretching or an hour. The moment I can sense that her session is over, I allow for the full pleasure to consume me and take myself over the edge.
There are passing moments when I realize how ridiculous my behavior is.
But like I said, passing moments.
The only time she saw me was the first morning when I was unaware of her daily morning backyard ritual. I’ve since remained out of sight to avoid any awkwardness, plus I’m not insane. I know my behavior is embarrassingly unacceptable.
I simply justify it by the pure fact that I recognize it.
She’s changed her angle today. Her back is facing me, which is excruciating because every time she does that down dog pose, her round, apple-shaped ass pushes back into the air.
The pose shows off her muscular legs, smooth skin, and gives me a preview of what she would look like bent over in front of me.
She’s petite, so she doesn’t have long, lanky legs or a prolonged torso.
Her curvy body is strong and fibrous in all the best places. I could watch her bend and move all day long.
Kneeling on the mat, the muscles in her back contract and she circles her arms over her head. The heels of her feet press into her ass as she leans forward in a grateful bow, giving me a teaser of the lace that disappears between her gorgeous cheeks.
She always ends her practice that way, bowing with her hands at her heart.
So I stroke myself faster, envisioning her on her knees looking up at me, mouth wide open begging for my cock. The thought sends me spiraling.
“Goddammit, Mimi,” I grit out.
Fireworks explode behind my eyes, and I let out a groan of pleasure as white ropes of cum paint my abs and spill over my cock.
Jesus, every time is better than the last.
Her shoulders lift and her chest rises in a hefty breath before peeking down at her watch. Then scurries, gathering the items next to her mat as she rushes inside the house.
She is obviously in a hurry. But I’ve noticed that about her.
If she isn’t rushing or running late…well, come to think of it, I don’t know if there is a time I have seen her at any other pace.
It drives me crazy to watch from afar, because nothing in my world operates that way. I know exactly where I’m going and what I’m doing at all times—and I always have ample time to do whatever it is that I need to do.
I am as predictable as the Seattle weather.
She, on the other hand, is like betting on dachshund racing.
In any other person, I would immediately cut them off and not give any shits about it.
With her, I find it…endearing.
God, help me.
She is going to drive me to drink, and I don’t even drink.
Not only do I hate the loss of control, but steering clear of anything my father loved has been my how-to-make-it-through-life guide. It’s the only thing he ever taught me. Inadvertently, of course, because that man didn’t actually try to teach me anything good .
Using a rag to clean myself up, I wash my hands before grabbing my mug and heading downstairs.
Finishing my coffee, I rinse the cup out in the sink and place it in the dishwasher.
I’m already partially dressed, wearing only jeans—which I inspect to make sure I didn't make a mess on myself and, thankfully, I’m good.
I walk into my room and click on the iron. It quickly heats up and I press the button to release a spritz of water and steam as I run the base over the shirt on the ironing board.
I hate wrinkles.
Not only is it ingrained in me—fifty pushups for every one wrinkle—but it looks like shit.
Grabbing the shirt, I shake out the stiffness and throw it over my head, then finish getting dressed.
I peek out the window and I’m surprised to see Mimi walking out of her house not wearing her normal yoga outfit.
She still has on leggings, but it’s dressed up with an oversized top that hugs her waist and flows over her upper body.
She paired with the deep navy leggings and black leg warmers that wrap around her bottom half.
They start at her knee and trail all the way down, hugging the back of the heels she is wearing.
She’s not teaching in that, so where the hell is she going?
I’m suddenly irritated that I have my meeting with Ember at Afterburn today. I should consider canceling, but I know I can’t.
The moment I found out Mimi lived here, I offered myself up for Ember’s permanent security team for her large events, and she immediately took me up on it.
We have an event this weekend that we need to plan for. My team is meeting me there to go over the logistics and prepare for anything different based on the theme of what she has planned.
Dammit .
You can’t follow her around everywhere she goes , I tell myself, but I would rather punch myself in the face than listen to that guy.
Step away from the window, Seamus.
I do it reluctantly.
I’ll see her later. I know I will, but my obsession is verging on dangerous, and I hate that she hasn’t given in to her curiosity and made her way over to me yet.
She’s more stubborn than I thought.
After I get back home, I’ll conjure up some way for her to have to come and see me.
An hour later, I’m parking my truck in the same spot I always park in, on the side of the building of Afterburn. The vast difference between the club at night and the club during the day is quite literally, night and day.
Seeing it now, virtually empty and desolate, is a complete one-eighty from the nighttime chaos of the reporters and the members who are practically begging to get in on a nightly basis.
The protestors still show up on event nights, which is why Ember has my secondary security team for those, as well as the weekends, too.
Rounding the corner to the front entrance, I slow my steps as I inspect the white Mini Cooper that’s parked near the front.
There are a lot of white Mini Coopers , I remind myself as I continue to walk.
But as I get closer to it, I peek through the windshield and my legs stall. Yoga mats are rolled up haphazardly in the back, a sweater thrown over the top of them, a couple bottles of water are resting in the center console, and other random crap spread across the front seat.
I snap my head in the direction of the building, then back at the disaster of a car .
What the hell is she doing here?
Unable to stop myself, I stalk to the front entrance, pulling the heavy doors open with ease. Walking through them and around the front lobby desk with purpose in my step.
The waterfall isn’t on like it normally is, so the quietness of the vast space is deafening, which is a dramatic change from the customary nighttime ritual. It’s open and so empty you could hear a pin drop.