𝐖𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝟏𝟎𝟏 (𝟏𝟖+)

𝐈𝐈

At exactly 1:10, I excited the car and walked up the steps leading to the big front doors. The intricately carved patterns on the two large slabs of wood must've taken days to make. Even the shiny gold handles had the matching design. I reached for the metal, but my eyes caught a small built-in box on the wall beside one door. It's a doorbell with a direct line to whoever. Keenan really values security. If I were him, I would too.

I pushed what I assume is the doorbell button. I heard it sound from the inside and a few seconds later, a choppy buzz came from the small speaker. It's what I imagine a robot's burp to sound like.

"Who is it?" the male's voice wasn't the friendliest, though I almost fell to the floor thinking that it might be Keenan. I might be talking to Keenan Travino already.

"Mentee, sir," I answered, polite Gia coming out to play, "For the Contented program."

The man on the other line sighed defeatedly, a wisp of negativity, but I did not let it affect me. "Wait, I'm naked," he muttered before he hung up.

N-Naked?

Having an ass-load of nervousness to deal with, I whistled a catchy tune and tapped my foot against the floor as I waited. God, I hope I don't faint.

I eventually heard heavy footsteps from the other side of the grand doors. One metal knob moved, and a pregnant, suspenseful moment later, the wooden dividers swung open.

Well, kiss my ass and fuck my mouth.

Four times. I practiced my greeting four times over the past few days, but all I managed to say when a breathtaking Mr. Keenan stood before me was "Hi".

His face would've passed as blank if it were not for the slight creases on his forehead and the cute little V between his thick brows. He looks different from the photos I had seen. For one, that Keenan Travino was not built as thick and beefy as the one before me. Secondly, that Keenan was clean-shaven with neat hair slicked back. Lastly, that seven-years-into-the-past Keenan did not have a cigarette between his lips.

He regarded me boredly, eyes hovering from the top of my head to the toe tips of my shoes. Then, to my eyes, penetrating through the sockets until he was able to burn my brain. Now it's not functioning well. His bold observation made me conscious about my outfit: light-washed jeans, a tucked silky button-up, and white sneakers.

The cigar was draw in between his two fingers, moving them out of his mouth. He puffed gray smoke before muttering two simple words that turned my insides into bees, "Come in."

I gingerly stepped inside, soles coming in contact with marble tiles in the color of charcoal. He held the door open for me and Mr. Travino's scent wafted through my nostrils. It was bold, strong, and masculine along with the smell of tobacco sticks. I'm not a fan of smoking, but the distinct scent of the man turned me on.

Calm down, calm down, calm down. We can do this.

"Nice home you have, sir," my smile was saccharine, attracting all ants in the hill.

Keenan was monotone, "Thanks, it costs nine million dollars."

My eyes widened into pans, the feeding program types. His mansion costs more than Erika Leonard's, and that woman's books became movies. I wonder why Travino's books don't have film adaptations.

I trailed behind him like a lost kitten, having a hard time with his long strides. As he walked like he owns the place because he does, a trail of smoke followed. The man stopped in the middle of his living room and I halted right before I could hit his back. Keenan turned and flinched at my proximity.