Chapter 16 Desi
DESI
I shock awake—heart racing, pulse thumping, face beaded in sweat.
It takes me a second to orient myself to the fact that I’m in my room and not in Reznor’s bed.
Because that was my dream.
Not a dark shadow standing over my bed. Not the paralyzing fear of what am I going to do.
Just the ache between my thighs of an orgasm denied.
I shove out of bed and walk to the kitchen to get some water, anything to clear the unsated desire owning my body so I don’t march across the grass at two in the morning and break my own rules.
The dogs’ collars jingle as they scratch and figure out if they want to raise their heads and watch what I’m doing or if they’d rather stay snuggled in their beds.
They choose beds.
Smart dogs.
I flick on the lights, grab a water from the fridge, and just as I turn mine off, I notice across the yard that Reznor’s light is on.
Two damn peas in a pod.
Curiosity has me glancing his way.
His usually closed curtain that faces my direction is pulled back.
He’s facing me, the light at his back highlighting his silhouette, and the moonlight above casting enough light on his face that I can see his eyes.
And they are looking right at me. His chest is bare, and I can’t see anything below the sexy V of his hips, because just about at his hairline, the fence blocks my view.
He knows I’m here. He knows I’m watching him. He doesn’t acknowledge me in any way, but I can feel him.
It makes no sense, and yet I can feel his awareness, his presence, and I can more than see the intense desire burning in his eyes when his hand slides over his stomach and below.
I can’t see his hand or his fingers, but I know they close around his shaft.
It’s in the bend of his elbow. The movement of his arm.
The way his eyes close ever so slowly and his head falls back for the briefest of seconds.
I can’t hear his groan but know he’s emitting one. I can’t hear the sound of his hand working over his cock, but I know he is.
And when he brings his head forward and locks his eyes on mine, teeth sinking into his bottom lip and his shoulders tense, my fingers find their way between my thighs.
It’s my moan I hear now. It’s my ache he’s created that I’m trying to sate. It’s him I’m thinking of as I slide my fingers down the seam of my sex until I find myself already wet, already wanting, already needing him.
My eyes close as I imagine it’s Reznor’s fingers in me. On me. Pleasuring me. And when I open them up, his eyes own mine. Like me, he’s imagining the things he can’t see.
His face is tense, his lips are lax, and everything about him oozes sex. But all I can do is remember his touch. All I can do is try to replicate it. All I can hope for is the same satisfaction.
But I’m as transfixed on him, on watching him come, as I am in bringing myself to climax, because there’s something so intensely erotic and intimate in this unexpected moment. The mind-fucking. We can’t hear each other, but we’re forced to watch so we can see what we do to the other.
When he comes—head thrown back, arm jerking feverishly, the tendons in his neck taut with pleasure—I can all but feel the rumble of his groan and jerk of his hips as if he were standing between my thighs. And it’s that thought, the one of me getting him off, that brings me to my own peak.
My breath grows harsher as my fingers move faster until the wall of pleasure slams into me.
And it does hit me...a soft wave of sensations I can sink into, but it’s nothing like how Reznor made me feel. It is less intense. Shorter. Less pleasurable.
I’m far from sated.
But I show none of it to him as our eyes hold across the distance, because he was right.
I’m not satisfied.
Not in the least.
I still want him.
But when I move to pull my panties up, he’s gone. His curtains are drawn, his light is off.
Goddamn you, Reznor Mayne.
This was never supposed to happen. Not you. Not me.
But God, how I want it to.
I want him.
Now.
Tomorrow.
That’s all I’ll allow myself to think about.
Because I don’t deal in anything after that.
I can’t.
I won’t.
Then why is my mind wandering there?