Egbá: A Gentle Femdom Novella

EIGHT

Egbá practically begged for him to stay away from her house, and even though he wants nothing more than to be with her and comfort her when she's down, he has to respect her wishes. She probably has a reason for wanting to wallow in self-pity and depression alone.

At least, she has a reason.

Marcos hasn't been able to sit still, (or sit un-still for that matter) since he dropped Egbá at her house three days ago. He's been ridiculously nervous, and anxious, and for the life of him, he can't figure out why his appetite keeps flunctuating.

If that isn't depression, he doesn't know what is. But — and here's the real kicker — there's no reason why he should be depressed. None at all.

The only bright spot to his days have been the three-times-a-day calls he'd coerced out of Egbá as bribe for staying out of her house. She only stayed on the phone for about five minutes each time, reporting her day in the most monotonous, sarcastic way possible. And he'd listen to her, and feel somewhat revitalized.

Then she'd hang up, and he'd be depressed again. He wants to shout down a plane.

He'll give her three more days. No, two. After two days, he'll barge into her house, her annoyance be damned, and find out if she's as fine as she claims to be. Till then, he'll just have to console himself with the calls.

The twelve o'clock call is two minutes overdue.

He grabs his phone to dial her. It rings and rings, then reaches voicemail. He calls her again, wondering if he's to survive without his bright spot for another six hours, till she picks on the third ring.

"You were going to ignore me again, weren't you?"

"Open your door."

He stills. "What?"

"I'm outside. Open your door."

He can't remember the last he ran for anything in his life, but he does now. He stops just before he opens the door, hoping his hair hasn't frizzed up and the sleep tracks he awoke with on his face has disappeared. He's doesn't want to be caught unprepared by someone who makes sick look like a beauty pageant, but he doesn't have a choice.

He pushes the door open, and they stand in front of each other. Awareness makes his skin prickle. Could she be any more stunning? Her hair is packed away from her face in a high ponytail, leaving soft-looking curls to frame the sides of her face. The style makes her eyes huge, makes her entire face pop, makes her red lips look even more inviting.

Every previously nervous and anxious part of him recedes, letting the part that feels like himself come back. She's at his house, and he's no longer strung out, or antsy.

"I'm sorry I showed up like this," she says.

"Do it anytime," he replies without thinking twice.

"I need. . ."

She trails off, moving forward slowly. He knows what she needs. She needs something to take her mind off the fact that she lost her parents today four years ago, and she came to him.

He takes a quick look at her face, sees the clear eyes and bright skin. He doesn't look depressed. She doesn't look like she has been crying at all. She just looks like she needs to talk. Vent.

She watches him as if trying to make sure of something, then closes the distance between them. She pushes her body into him gingerly, and wraps her hands around him.

Egbá is hugging him. It's one of the few times her feet are in human tennis shoes, so her head is a comfortable tuck on his chest. His heart is in his throat now, just watching how this powerful, stone-cold woman is clinging to him for some warmth. Him. Of all the motherfuckers on this planet, she found him when she needed comfort.