Chapter 7 #2
Or maybe she’s right, and I have a god complex because someone has to.
“Why didn’t you tell him about the notebook?”
“It would split focus,” I say, holding her gaze. “It’s not connected, remember?”
She rolls her eyes. “You’re a dick.”
I smile as she turns her back. She doesn’t know the half of it. Nuala moves over to the cupboard, and I pull the couch out. She returns a moment later and makes a messy bed before staring at it.
“What?”
“I don’t have anything to sleep in.”
More than one of the seven deadly sins crashes into my thoughts, and I let them linger there before I dismiss them. “Strip off. I’ll wash and dry your clothes while you’re sleeping.”
I watch her face flush deep red. She opens her mouth, closes it, then opens it again. “You want me to strip off in front of you?”
“Do you want to sleep in your clothes and then go through all of tomorrow still wearing them?”
She gulps. “No. I want to go home.”
“Not happening. Strip.”
I don’t turn around. I don’t take my eyes off her as she lifts her chin. She starts with her apron, and it drops to the floor with a metallic clang. Her tips, probably. She leaves it where it is as her fingers unbutton her shirt.
I watch each button come undone, revealing pale skin beneath. The white fabric parts, exposing a simple white bra underneath. Her hands shake, but she doesn’t stop. She shrugs the shirt off her shoulders, and it joins the apron on the floor.
Her eyes dare me to comment. I don’t. I just wait.
She hesitates for a fraction of a second, and I see the exact moment she decides to call my bluff.
Her fingers move to the side of her black skirt, and the zipper's rasp as it slides down is the only sound in the room.
I track every inch of pale thigh as the fabric falls away.
My hands fist at my sides to keep from reaching for her.
The skirt pools at her feet. Black knickers.
Nothing fancy. Nothing matching. Practical.
But on her curvy body, they make my mouth go dry.
“Happy now?” she asks, standing there in her underwear. There’s challenge in her eyes, daring me to comment, to show weakness. She doesn’t cower or try to cover herself. She owns her body, owns this moment, and it makes me want to show her exactly how much power she has over me.
“Not even close,” I murmur. “Underwear as well.”
Her eyes flash with that fire again that lights up my fucking soul like a firework.
“No way.”
“You want to parade around tomorrow in day-old underwear?”
Her jaw clenches so tightly, I mentally catalog where the painkillers are kept. “Turn around.”
“No.”
The challenge is laid bare.
Her gaze is intense as she turns around instead and unclips her bra. The curve of her tits is clearly visible as she drops the bra onto the pile of clothes. She hooks her fingers into the sides of her panties and pulls them down, exposing an arse I want to bite, just to hear her scream.
I have to grip the back of the armchair to keep from crossing the room to her.
To keep from pressing her against the wall and showing her exactly how ‘happy’ she's made me.
My knuckles go white with the effort. She sees the way I'm barely holding back, and something flickers in her eyes. Not fear. Interest.
And that’s when I know I’m completely fucked.
She slides under the blanket and doesn’t look at me as I scoop up the clothes and empty her apron by tipping it upside down over the bed.
Notes, coins, a pen, and a small pad fall out.
Moving to the small washing machine tucked in the corner of the kitchenette, I dump everything in, add detergent, and set it running. The mechanical hum fills the silence.
When I turn back, she’s curled on her side, facing away from me. The blanket is pulled up to her chin. Her shoulders are rigid with tension.
I grab my whiskey and settle into the armchair facing the door with the gun on my lap. The notebook mocks me from the coffee table.
“Logan?” Her voice is small in the darkness.
“Yeah?”
“Thank you. For not letting me die.”
Something twists in my chest. “Go to sleep, Nuala.”
She doesn’t respond. After a while, her breathing evens out. She’s asleep, or doing a damn good impression of it.
I pull out my phone and scroll through the news. The Sailing Club massacre is already trending. Fifty three dead. Gang violence suspected. Garda appealing for witnesses.
Nuala should’ve made it fifty four. The thought makes my grip tighten on the phone until the case creaks.
I glance at her sleeping form. She's shifted onto her back, and the blanket has slipped down, exposing the smooth line of her breast. I don't look away. I should. A better man would. But I’m not that man anymore. I drink in the sight of her. The way her nipple peaks in the cool air, how her lips part slightly in sleep. I imagine what sounds she’d make if I woke her with my mouth on her breast. Whether she’d fight me or surrender to my touch.
The thought makes me hard again, and I hate myself for it.
But I still don't look away. It’s been a long time since I saw a woman naked.
Before I entered the seminary. I had a couple of girlfriends in high school, but never anything serious enough to tear me away from what I wanted to do, who I wanted to be. My calling.
I scoff lightly and rise, moving over to stare down at her. Her nipple is peaked in the cool air, tempting me to suck it, pinch it, twist it until her pussy is wet and I can slide into her, bury myself deep inside her and pretend that this guilt I carry doesn’t exist.
The washing machine beeps, tearing my attention away from her.
I transfer her clothes to the dryer and set it running.
The machine rumbles to life. I lean against the counter and drain the rest of the whiskey, my gaze returning to her breast, her peaked nipple, the curve of her hip under that thin blanket.
I pour another measure. This is a problem. She’s a problem. Not because of the notebook or the massacre or the fact that someone wants her dead. Those are just logistics. Obstacles I can handle.
The problem is the way my chest tightens when I look at her. The way my hands itch to touch her skin. The way I want to crawl under that blanket and make her forget everything except my name.
I abandoned God six months ago. Looks like I’m about to abandon what’s left of my self-control, too.
I force myself back to the armchair, but every muscle in my body screams to go to her.
To slide under that blanket and taste every inch of skin she just showed me.
The gun sits heavy on my thigh, but not as heavy as the weight of wanting something I can't have. Something I shouldn't want. The dryer hums. Nuala shifts in her sleep, murmuring something I can’t make out. Her hand reaches out, searching for something that isn’t there.
I stay where I am. I don’t go to her. I don’t smooth her hair back. I don’t whisper that she’s safe.
Because the truth is, she’s not safe. Not really. Not while that notebook exists and people know she might have seen it.