21. INTRUSION #2
There are no family photographs on display, no visible remnants of domestic chaos, nothing that suggests vulnerability. It’s a house designed to be occupied without ever being exposed.
The staircase curves upward toward the private quarters, but I don’t ascend yet. My attention shifts toward the study, its door slightly ajar as though inviting curiosity rather than forbidding it.
For a moment, I consider stepping inside—digging through drawers, scanning terminals to map the skeleton of his mind.
But I don’t have time for the luxury. Delilah can be back at any second.
Soft footsteps.
I look behind to see Delilah walking back from the guest room and hurriedly strides towards the kitchen. So I retreat.
Her hair is loosely tied, strands falling around her face in a way that feels effortlessly intimate.
She’s unguarded, entirely at home in a space I’m trespassing. Her being barefoot proves she’s too comfortable. Too safe. Too… his. His perfect little housewife.
A sudden surge of jealousy slices through me. I wish it were me. It should be me.
My breath stalls in my throat as instinct snaps through me—predator and prey switching places in a fraction of a second.
For one razor-thin moment, I simply stare at her, two women occupying the same man’s space from two different worlds.
She pads down the hallway without looking up, unaware of the shadow standing only meters away. She doesn’t sense me, doesn’t feel the way the air changes when a predator enters the room.
She enters the kitchen just as the oven dings.
I step back into the shadows, angling my body so the darkness swallows me again.
She mutters something under her breath and gets back to focusing on whatever she was preparing before she left to check the guest room.
Fresh smell of something sweet hits my nostrils. My mouth is drooling just by imagining the taste. She’s a good cook, I have to give her that.
The domesticity of it all unsettles me more than any security ever could—the faint clink of cutlery, the scent of something about to be baked, the sound of someone belonging here.
She belongs here. I don’t.
Still, a strange satisfaction coils through me at the realization that his bedroom is likely empty. That I’ll enter it alone and will see him without her influence lingering in the air.
Curiosity tugs at me again—an intrusion tour through his house, his secrets, his hidden compartments—but I force it down. I didn’t come here to admire architecture or rail through his vulnerabilities. I came for him.
With quiet footsteps, I make my way towards the stairs. Paranoia gets the better of me—I keep glancing back, just in case she catches me.
Shortly and successfully, I’m in the hallway upstairs. The plush carpet swallows my footsteps as I walk past the room where he kept me. Surprisingly, it’s right beside the master bedroom.
Guess he actually kept me in the secondary bedroom. A surge of butterflies hits me so suddenly. I tamp it down for now and stand in front of the master bedroom.
The door opens into dimness with curtains drawn, the only illumination coming from a faint strip of light bleeding through the bathroom door. The light shines against the marble tiles.
The room smells like him—something expensive that’s faintly medicinal beneath the cologne.
The bed is unmade, sheets twisted as he abandoned them mid-thought. A half-empty glass of water sits on the bedside table, a book left open with a pen marking a page.
Curiosity urges my feet to walk over to the en-suite bathroom.
What surprises me is that the sliding door is already ajar. First the bedroom door and now this… He never leaves doors open.
I stop just before the threshold, fingers resting lightly on the edge of the glass. I don’t push it aside but angle my body so the shadows cling to me, hiding me in its darkness, and lean just enough to peek.
Alistair is inside the shower enclosure.
The water cascades over him in a clean, relentless stream, no steam fogging the glass, no warmth blurring the view.
His head is tilted upward, black hair slicked back and dripping—water tracing the sharp lines of his jaw, the strong collars of his neck to his broad chest with merciless precision.
I drink in how much I’m allowed to see, how much he doesn’t know he’s offering to his secret admirer.
My gaze drifts lower, taking my sweet time, as though looking too fast would shatter the illusion.
From this angle, I can only see his side profile, but it’s enough for me for now.
He isn’t built bulky—he’s sculpted, lean and carved, muscle defined by discipline rather than indulgence.
Strong arms, veins faintly visible beneath pale wet skin, abdomen flat and etched with defined lines, hips narrow, his ass firm and unapologetically masculine, thighs thick with controlled power. And nestled between them is raw masculinity.
My first time seeing one in real life, and I’m not horrified or repulsed.
Rather, my jaw drops from how physically beautiful someone can be. It’s not hard, but it’s still… large, proportioned too perfectly to his body, like everything about him is engineered with intention.
Every time my friends described about their boyfriends’ dicks, I grimaced from disinterest. Now my mind betrays me, spiraling into images I shouldn’t be able to conjure so vividly, replaying scenes that didn’t happen yet.
I’m more than glad to still be a virgin when most of my friends got full-on experience within seventeen—even the two best friends that died.
It feels too forbidden too taboo to think of my married professor like that. Which unfortunately makes it more thrilling.
The lighting catches on his muscles, on the quiet discipline of his posture. He’s not relaxed. Even naked, even alone, he stands like a man perpetually braced for war.
I watch his bicep flex when he rakes a hand through his wet hair. A low sigh leaves his lips, frustration or fatigue slipping through his composure.
My breath stutters at the sight, heat pooling low in my stomach, dampening my panties just by merely watching him.
He doesn’t know I’m here.
He doesn’t know he’s being watched.
And for the first time since I met him, the power feels tilted in my direction.
Arrogance is intoxicating, fleeting, like standing on the edge of a cliff and believing gravity won’t claim you. That’s why it lasts only for seconds.
The next moment, his eyes snap open, and his head whips right in my direction.
Instinct slams through me instantaneously. I melt deeper into the shadows and against the wall. My heart hammers a solo drum, my lungs refusing to work properly. Thankfully, I don’t bump into anything.
Yet my gaze never leaves him, watching him watch the darkness that’s now swallowed me whole.
Alistair keeps staring into the shadows, eyes narrowed and alert, sensing something most people, even his wife, ignore.
My eyes flick around the room, mapping exits, hiding spots, and calculating escape routes just in case he decides to step out mid-shower.
The curtains could work.
When I look back, he’s still watching this exact corner—the darkness I’m occupying with suspicion carved into his expression.
Alistair looks so different, much hotter without his glasses.
I can’t take my eyes off his striking facial features. For a second, I doubt if he’d even see me clearly without wearing his spectacles. But then I remember the way his head whipped in my direction with that much surety. I should never question his capabilities.
He reaches for one of the bottles—likely a body wash or a hair conditioner—and squeezes a generous amount into his palm.
My gaze flickers toward the label, eyes narrowing, trying to decipher the name, but I can’t quite make it out from the distance. If I could at least see the brand, I’d definitely buy one on my way back just to smell him.
Then, slowly, he closes his eyes.
His lips part slightly, breathing deep, chest rising and falling under the assault of water. And then his hand moves—fingers curling around his shaft.
Holy fucking hell.
I’m watching Alistair Hertley, my professor, wrap his hand around his dick and lather it up.
His thumb rubs over the flared head, runs up and down slowly along the length, taking his time massaging it.
His shoulders visibly relax at last, tension bleeding out of him as if he’s shedding armor one layer at a time.
But I stay frozen in the dark, knowing I should look away, and knowing I won’t.