Chapter 10 Kat
KAT
After another tense fifteen minutes, I was finally able to escape from the kitchen while Tom handed off the envelope to someone in a dark SUV.
There was a hushed conversation I couldn’t hear before the man left and Tom came back inside, engaging every lock imaginable and the security system Colt had insisted upon when I moved in.
It feels like overkill but I’ve already agreed to this, to Tom being my shadow for the foreseeable future.
I just hate it.
Because this is what I write about but it’s not…me.
What would my heroine do?
I let my head loll back and forth as I climb the stairs, stories and plot lines ping-ponging through my brain. The heroines in my books are strong.
Fierce.
Capable.
Also, not in real danger.
Ignoring that last part, I bypass my bedroom and head straight for my office. The dark green walls greet me as soon as I turn on the overhead light. The chandelier is elegant but functional, something sparkly that gives the room an expensive feel.
I’d gotten it at an estate sale and made Colt carry it around as I looked through a treasure trove of things I didn’t need and wouldn’t purchase. I don’t like clutter, and painstakingly chose each and every item so it has a place and purpose.
My house probably looks bland and boring, but it’s mine and it’s relaxing.
Mostly.
The only room with even a hint of chaos is this one. It’s my creative center with its dark green walls and pink and white accents.
It’s bold and fun and everything I wish I could be, like if I could let my hair down and just be me, this is what I’d look like.
Hypothetically speaking.
But I can’t, so I write and I lose myself in stories where extravagance is king and pleasure is sacred. The love is sensual and passionate and hot.
So very hot.
I made Colt promise he’d never read them because the last thing I need my brother experiencing is the inner workings of my brain where sex is involved.
Dirty sex.
Hot, filthy, delicious sex.
I miss sex.
And that thought is so not helpful. Dropping into the chair behind my desk, I open my laptop and stare at the screen. I could open my work in progress, but today has me feeling a little off-kilter and I need to just purge this feeling.
Loneliness.
Desperation.
Anguish.
Because someone outside my window hates me—not just my books or my writing but me. Just thinking about it makes me feel sick.
My fingers pound against the keys as the words appear before me, my cheeks wet with the tears rolling down my face as I mourn the person I’ll never get to be.
I hate the part of me that should be thankful for such a privileged life. But what is privilege if I have to make myself smaller to fit inside someone else’s narrative?
It’s exhausting.
Heartbreaking.
And still I write.
Strength blooms inside me at the thought that I might not be in this alone, that I’ve fought silently for so long and now someone has held out their hand for me to grab.
To pull me up.
To face this unknown together.
Tom’s face appears in my mind’s eye. He’s so handsome it almost hurts but more than that…I believe him. I believe that he wants to keep me safe.
He’s the kind of hero I write about. The one that will level a city to avenge the wrongs done to his girl.
The thought has a smile sliding across my lips, my tears replaced with a full-body flush as I think about what it would be like to have all that raw masculinity focused on me.
There’s no doubt that he’d be wild in bed.
And probably out of it too.
I can imagine his roughened palms sliding up my thighs, the anticipation of his touch between my legs, the way I know he’d take his time teasing and edging me until I’m begging for release.
That kind of intensity would be addictive.
Deliciously torturous.
Fuck it.
My panties are already damp just thinking about it—about him—or the idea of him at least. I know I’ll regret my decision later but right now, I can’t bring myself to care.
Seeing the door is blessedly closed, I let my head fall against my seat, thankful I’d chosen the one with the high back as I prop one foot on the desk brace and let my fingertips trace along the skin between my sweatshirt and the top of my leggings.
When my eyelids flutter shut, I can’t help but sigh, pushing my hand beneath the waistband, my heart racing a little faster knowing the door is unlocked.
He could walk in and see me.
Lips parting, I spread my legs wider, touching myself through my panties for only a second before diving underneath them and God, I’m so wet.
It usually takes an immense amount of focus and sometimes a vibrator to get off, but that won’t be a problem tonight.
My body is aching, my clit swollen and needy as I press tight little circles against it, changing the pressure, teasing myself, as I think of how it would feel to have Tom inside me.
He could bend me right over this desk, his hands gripping my ass, holding me open as he bottoms out, grinding against me before pulling out and doing it again.
My middle finger mimics the act, the sensation woefully lacking compared to how thick and perfect I’m imagining him to be, but it doesn’t matter.
I’m wound too tight, my orgasm building as I tilt my hips, finding a rhythm as I slide my finger up to circle my clit before following the same path down and thrusting inside.
It’s maddening.
Bold.
And so fucking empowering I nearly scream, pleasure exploding behind my eyes like little bursts of light. I have to bite my lip to keep myself quiet, the heel of my palm working my clit as I try to ride out every sweet second of my release.
Chest heaving and face flushed, I feel good—great even. I feel settled for the first time since the fire.
Thank you, Tom Oakden.
Pulling my hand from my leggings, I smirk. I think I’ve done enough work for tonight and after that, I definitely deserve some sleep.