Chapter 4 - Richard #3
But my cock doesn't care about guilt or appropriateness. It just knows that Belle Hart is in my house, in my bed, wearing clothes I bought for her. That she smiled at me like I hung the moon, looked at me with those doe eyes full of trust and gratitude and something else I don't dare name.
I push off the wall and force myself to keep walking, down the stairs, past my office, heading for my private suite on the opposite end of the house. The master bedroom I've barely used since moving here, preferring to fall asleep at my desk most nights.
I need a shower. A cold one, the kind that will shock my system back to appropriate responses and kill this persistent erection.
The bathroom is all marble and chrome, shower stall big enough for four people with multiple shower heads and temperature controls. I strip off my t-shirt and pajama pants, leaving them in a pile on the floor, and step into the stall.
I stand under the cold spray, letting it pound against my overheated skin, willing my body to calm the fuck down.
It doesn't work.
If anything, the shock of cold water makes me more aware of my physical state, of my cock standing rigid against my stomach, of the way my balls are drawn up tight, aching. Of the fact that I'm harder than I've been in years, all from a conversation with a woman I cannot have.
I brace one hand against the tile wall, water streaming over my shoulders, and close my eyes.
Bad idea.
Immediately my mind fills with images of Belle.
That sweater slipping off her shoulder, revealing smooth skin I want to taste.
Her curves in those leggings, soft and lush and exactly what I've always been attracted to.
The way she bit her bottom lip while thinking, making me want to bite it too, to see if she'd gasp or moan or—
I need to stop.
But I can't. Can't control the way my free hand moves down my body, wrapping around my throbbing cock almost of its own volition. Can't stop the groan that escapes my throat at the contact, at the relief of finally, finally touching myself after hours of restraint.
This is wrong. So fucking wrong. I shouldn't be doing this, shouldn't be thinking about Belle while I stroke myself under the cold spray. Should have better control, more decency, some shred of honor.
But honor fled the moment she smiled at me, and control has been a losing battle since the day I met her.
I tighten my grip, stroking slowly from root to tip, thumb swiping over the sensitive head. My cock jerks in my hand, pre-cum leaking despite the cold water, and I have to bite back another groan.
In my mind, it's Belle's hand wrapped around me.
Belle on her knees in this shower, looking up at me with those innocent eyes while she takes me in her mouth.
Belle pressed against this tile wall, those thick thighs wrapped around my waist while I fuck into her soft body, making her moan my name instead of my son's.
I stroke faster, water pounding on my back, chasing the orgasm that's building at the base of my spine. It's been months since I've done this, since I've let myself have even this much, this solitary pleasure. I usually have better control, better discipline.
But Belle has destroyed every wall I've built, and now I'm here, jerking off to thoughts of her like some desperate teenager who can't help himself.
I picture her breasts, full and soft, the kind I could bury my face in. Picture the curve of her hips, her ass, all those lush places I want to grip while I'm buried inside her. Picture her face when she comes, head thrown back, dark hair spread across my pillows.
My hand moves faster, rougher, chasing sensation. I'm close, so fucking close, wound tight with two years of wanting what I can't have.
"Belle," I groan, her name escaping before I can stop it, echoing off the marble walls. "Fuck, Belle."
I come hard, spilling over my fist and onto the shower floor. It goes on and on, longer than it should, intense enough to make my knees weak. When it finally subsides, I slump against the wall, breathing hard, water still pounding on my back.
The guilt hits immediately, overwhelming. I just came thinking about Belle. Fuck. Traumatized, vulnerable Belle who came to me for help and safety, not to be the subject of my sick fantasies.
I'm exactly the kind of man I've always despised. Taking advantage, even in thought, of someone in a weaker position. Sexualizing someone who's processing trauma. Wanting my son's ex-fiancée with an intensity that borders on obsession.
I should send her away. Tomorrow, I should set her up in a hotel, give her money and resources, maintain professional distance. Should protect her from my inappropriate desire by removing myself from the equation.
But I know I won't. Because despite the guilt, despite the self-loathing, despite everything that's wrong about this situation, I want her here. Want her safe, protected, close enough that I can make sure Nathan never touches her again.
Even if it destroys me. Even if I have to spend every night like this, hiding in cold showers, hating myself for wanting what I can never have.
Belle Hart is under my protection now, and I'll be damned if I let anyone hurt her again.
Even if the person she most needs protection from is me.