23. SHADOW
ariella
Unfortunately, watching Professor Hertley fuck his wife turned me on.
The invasive image won’t leave me alone. It’s looping in my mind with cruel precision. The way he drove into her, relentlessly yet so controlled in that brutal kind of way that didn’t ask for permission.
I’m still tucked behind the curtains, barely breathing, every nerve strung tight. Although my hand was toying with my vertical lips while I watched him fuck his wife, I couldn’t make myself come. The feeling is leaving me dry as if nothing but his hands would suffice.
Once he leaves to freshen up, I let myself peek out only for a few seconds to check the surroundings. His wife is already passed out—completely spent, limbs slack, body surrendered to exhaustion.
Who wouldn’t be after being taken apart like that by Alistair Hertley?
The shower starts running again. I want to watch him once more, but I can’t risk getting caught by his wife.
My gaze lingers a second too long before my thoughts turn towards the closet. Why the closet? Out of all the places I can hide back… why there?
A part of me answers before I can stop it. I want him to open it. To reach for something—anything—and find me there instead.
All the precautions I took to get in here, all the careful planning and stalking… and yet beneath it all, there’s that reckless craving of being caught by him.
God, I must be out of my damn mind.
The shower stops.
My heart slams violently against my ribs, the sound so loud it feels like it echoes in my ears. My breath stutters, pulse spiking erratically. I come out of the curtains and run to get inside the closet without thinking twice.
What if he walks over here?
What if—
The bathroom door clicks open, and Alistair steps out. He’s already dressed in a pair of sweatpants. The sight knocks the tension loose from my lungs.
I exhale almost shakily from either relief or disappointment, perhaps both.
The room sinks into darkness the moment he switches off the last bedside lamp. Only thin streaks of streetlights filter through the curtains now, casting faint, fractured shadows across the space.
He slips into bed beside her, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight before going still.
I don’t move yet.
Instead, I wait.
One… Two… Five…
Ten minutes.
Long enough for his breathing to even out and for the room to settle into that heavy, intimate silence of sleep. He should be deep in slumber by now.
Carefully, I ease out of the closet.
I wish something could calm down my beating heart as I tiptoe in his direction.
I stop right beside him, painfully aware that his wife lies just inches away. The risk only intensifies something dark and electric inside me.
My eyes trace him. His body is tensed and all guards up.
Even sleeping, Alistair doesn’t look peaceful. It almost seems like he’s fighting the demons that dare to haunt him in his dreams.
The rational part in me is contemplating not taking a risk and leaving. But the irrational part urges me to stay and keep going.
After all, no risk, no gain.
He’s on his back, a blanket carelessly draped over his lower half, leaving the rest of him exposed. His broad chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm. Defined abs catching the faint streetlights. Strong arms relaxed, veins visible beneath the skin.
Seeing him from a distance, while I was half-hidden in shadows before, is nothing compared to this.
Up close, it’s more dangerous.
I want to see him like this in daylight. No shadows. No barriers. No distance. Just us.
My teeth sink lightly into my bottom lip at the thought.
I want to bite into those muscles. Taste them. See if they’re as hard as they look.
My body moves before I can fully think it through. I remove my gloves on autopilot. Next, my knees sink to the floor beside the bed, the carpet soft beneath them.
My hands lift, hovering for a fraction of a second before settling against his chest. Fingers spread slowly, palms flattening on his skin, feeling the steady heat of his body.
I drag my nails lightly, tracing from his shoulders down to his chest, then lower… over the ridges of his abs, mapping him in silence.
And then the thought hits—he had his dick inside her. My touch pauses for just a second. The image crashes back, twisting the color of envy deep in my stomach.
Alistair needs to be cleaned.
Suddenly, I’m pulling the blanket up, shifting into that seated position—on my knees beside him, drawing the fabric over myself, covering as much of myself as I can.
Darkness swallows everything, turning the anticipation into thrilling addiction.
I can’t see a thing, not even my own hands. All I have is the awareness of him—his lower abdomen, so close to my face I can practically smell the bodywash.
If drugs can get you high, then I’m definitely reaching nirvana just by smelling him.
Carefully, I fumble for the waistband, fingers brushing past it and inside the sweatpants, cautious enough not to accidentally wake him up.
My hand touches around him there. He’s soft—warm, heavy, but not yet fully awake to me. The moment I wrap his shaft and pull it out, Alistair lets out a low, unguarded groan.
Instinct snaps through me, making me freeze.
My breath catches, muscles locking while I wait—counting seconds, listening for any shift that might mean he’s stirring up.
Nothing.
Just the slow rhythm of sleepy breath.
I lift my hand to lick my palms, the wetness cooling briefly before it turns slick and purposeful. My wet fingers encircle him once more.
To my utter surprise, I feel him hardening, thickening in my palms, responding without consciousness.
I swallow a lump without stopping my hand, gliding it along his length in slow, languid strokes—steady and patient, coaxing, guiding, shifting between clockwise and anticlockwise, applying the right pressure.
Feeling him come alive like this—because of me, without even knowing it—does something twisted and possessive inside my chest.
Once I’m satisfied with the weight of him, the fullness, my mouth parts. I lean over to take him in.
Never in my wildest dreams have I ever thought of living this moment.
The first press of his against my tongue makes my breath hitch. Smooth. Velvety. Warm in a strangely intoxicating way.
That faint, pulsing vein of his shaft over my tongue sends shivers straight to my pussy. Before I can stop it, a soft moan slips out—too honest, too revealing.
I still. Damn it. I force it down immediately, steadying myself. I’m not here for that.
I’m not here to let him use my mouth.
I’m here to erase her.
So I focus. My tongue thoroughly moves over him, lapping along every inch with a desperate kind of precision.
I manipulate my tongue to taste, trace, and clean like I can strip away every last touch of his wife, even though I know he’s already washed himself.
It’s not enough.
It will never be enough.
I want to replace her. Replace every memory his body holds of her with me.
If I could, I’d be the one beneath him—wrapped around him, letting him fuck me instead, taking everything she gets without deserving it.
Since I can’t yet, I’ll do whatever I can till I can—I’d lick him clean after every time he fucks his wife.
My pussy throbs painfully to replace my mouth with it. I try to rub my fingers of my free hand, trying to soothe some of the ache, but it only worsens it. So I remove my hand altogether and clamp my thighs shut.
Then I reach upward, pressing my palm flat against his chest, seeking his heartbeat. I flatten my palm right at the center, feeling it immediately—too fast, too loud. His breathing isn’t steady either. It’s now uneven, fractured in a way that shouldn’t belong to sleep.
It makes my lips curl faintly around him. He’s not awake, but his body knows and is accepting this forbidden pleasure.
I’m almost surprised he hasn’t caught me yet—hasn’t woken to this, to me licking him, to the sin I’m committing inches away from his consciousness.
In the middle of my tongue innocently licking off his dick from balls to tip, his body jerks.
There’s no warning. Within moments, my mouth fills with warm, thick, and salty liquid.
My eyes widen in the darkness as realization crashes through me—he’s coming in my mouth.
A soft, needy sound escapes me, one that I can’t swallow. I relax, taking him deeper, pushing him further into my mouth, letting him spill down my throat. I swallow every pulse, every drop like a sacred offering.
Some of it slips—spilling past my lips, trailing down the corners of my mouth.
I hate that. I hate losing a drop.
I chase it instinctively, tightening around him in a desperate and greedy attempt to reclaim what’s already been wasted.
Slowly, his body settles.
His heartbeat evens out beneath my palm. His breathing smooths, returning to obliviousness—as if this was nothing more than a wet dream conjured by his own mind.
The only evidence left is the semi-erect weight in my hand and the mess I’ve made of my face. Well, let’s not ignore the painful ache in my pussy from the greed of being full of him.
Just as cautious as I was when it started, I adjust him back like nothing ever happened. Like I was never here to begin with.
I slip out from under the blanket, feeling cool air brushing against my damp lips and heated body. I bend over and press my lips on the left side of his chest.
Once satisfied with the faint stain, I straighten back up and smirk at the artwork. When he wakes up, he should know whatever happened wasn’t just a wet dream but something untraceably real.
Then I lick my lips clean with my tongue, tasting the strawberry flavor of the lip tint, salt, and something darker that lingers beneath.
Slowly, I rise to my feet and fix my gloves, sealing everything away.
Before I leave, I fix the blanket over his body one last time, making sure he looks undisturbed.
Then I turn towards the window.
The height isn’t bad. It’s manageable. There’s a platform below—something to break the fall and safely split the jump in two.
If I can get used to it tonight, then the next time—and there will be a million more times—I won’t need to deal with open windows, locked doors, or anyone standing in my way.
I’ll come straight to him through his bedroom windows.
With that decision settling in my mind, I slide the windows open and jump out in the darkness.