Chapter 35
Leo
N ora’s upstairs changing, and I’ve taken the opportunity to pour myself a whiskey, even though it’s not yet five. I need something to dull the edge, even if just slightly.
Because the sight of her today—smiling, laughing, pushing back with her sharp tongue—was almost too much. It was the closest thing to normal we’ve had. Almost like we could be something real. Almost like she could be mine.
The way she snapped at the sales assistant was unexpected but not unwelcome.
She was jealous. I saw it plain as day in her eyes, the flash of anger, the way she clung to my arm like a possessive wife.
For someone who insists she doesn’t want me, she sure didn’t like the idea of another woman putting her hands on what’s hers.
It lit something in me I’d been trying to smother for weeks.
Because if she can feel jealousy, then she can feel something else too.
Maybe I can make her mine—not just on paper, not just through obligation, but truly.
Still, I tread carefully. She’s thawing.
Slowly. One wrong move and she’ll freeze up again.
I’ve seen her build her walls back in seconds. I can’t afford that—not now.
I run a hand through my hair and lean back on the couch, sipping slowly.
I’ve thought a lot about telling her the truth.
To tell her that I was the one who silently watched her for all those nights.
But if the Max reveal was a betrayal in her eyes, what the hell would she do if she knew I was the man behind the mask too?
That I was the one who snuck into her room, who cuffed her to the bed and made her come undone under my hands and mouth?
That the man she trusted with her darkest fantasies is the same one she now shares a house—and a name—with?
I close my eyes and exhale slowly, remembering the last night I touched her.
Three weeks ago. But I remember it like it was yesterday.
The soft velvet of the blindfold over her eyes. The tremble of her thighs as I teased her, tasted her. The way her body begged for more even when her voice wouldn’t say the words. Her pretty pussy soaked for me, slick and perfect and sweet as sin.
God, I can still taste her. Still hear the way she moaned as she came against my lips. And she wanted it. Needed it. Craved it. She gave herself to that man—completely.
And now… now I sit across from her at breakfast, pretending to be content with polite conversation and the occasional flicker of a smile.
It’s torture.
And yet—I can’t tell her. Not yet.
She’s starting to trust me again, just a little. If I shatter that by revealing the truth, she’ll hate me forever. No matter how much of it was real. No matter how deeply I loved her even then.
So I wait. I give her space. I let her take small steps toward me, and I follow slowly, even though every part of me is begging to close the distance and take what I already know is mine.
Tonight, she’ll be on my arm. Dressed in something that will no doubt make me want to lock the doors and forget the world exists. And if I’m lucky, she’ll let me in—just a little further.
Until then, I wait.
I sip my drink and listen for the creak of the stairs, already half-hard at the thought of what she might be wearing.
And when I hear her footsteps—soft, hesitant—I set my glass down.