Chapter 7
Oliver
"To watch over someone is to carry both the burden of their pain and the hope of their salvation."
A person like me will never know what secrets are held in the heavens.
Nevertheless, I would be ok if my little bird is the closest I get to Nirvana.
In all my years, with all my darkness and wrongdoings, no one has ever silenced the demons the way she does.
She makes me… want... to be a good person.
I watch as she boards the bus, scanning for any sign of me hiding in the shadows.
Not this time, little dove.
My thoughts are coming down from the ‘high’ she put me in, when I finally make it back home.
Stepping through the threshold I am greeted by the spasmodic clattering of countless fragments hitting the metal siding of a small trash can.
I clear my throat, redirecting her attention, “All is well. I just broke my tea glass.” She calls out before she looks at me.
As our eyes meet, I notice hers are red and puffy, and she is using body language to communicate something to me. She is yanking her head in an upward motion—it looks like she is having a seizure as the wrinkles on her neck go taut every time her chin lifts.
My brows furrow, crimping to the center above the bridge of my nose. I step toward her and cradle her face in my hand, inspecting the vermilion hue that is spreading across her face. Her eyes shift toward the spare room, then back to mine.
It was then I knew my little bird was safe in the nest. “Welcome home.” She mutters, her voice shaky from crying.
“Thank you, Mam.” I respond, sliding my hand to her shoulder as I stride past, bee-lining a path to the staircase. I get to the top, making it to the door in record time, and I crack it just enough to see her sleeping soundly—she is safe now.
~*~*~*~
It's far past lunchtime when I hear the old door squeak open from upstairs.
A cheshire smile stretches across my face, nearly touching both ears as I follow the sound of her footsteps down the hall from the first floor with my eyes.
I find they are faint but perceptible against the wooden floor.
I peer through the bookcase I ducked behind—gazing with awe at the gloriousness of my little bird.
She clears her throat. “Ehm, Ms. Niven.” She barely grumbles. “I mean, Niven. Would you happen to have any coffee?” Her flaxen-chestnut-hair falls chaotically upon her shoulders.
“Oh, good afternoon.” Niven responds as she waltzes around the corner. “I have a dark roast and a nice Irish sweet cream. Will that do?”
Emory smiles wearily. “Yes, ma’am, thank you.
” Niven disappears again as Emory swivels, taking in the scenery around her.
She strides from bookshelf to display case, reading some of the titles aloud.
“The whole Hannibal series by Thomas Harris? Fantastic.” She whispers with something like a gleam in her eye, I watch as her fingers dance over the spines, like keys to her fictional piano.
“I have just the place you and I can talk.” Niven rounds the corner once more, a piping cup of liquid in each hand. “Follow me, dear.”
I stalk after them. As they travel across a narrow room toward the back of the building, they pass through a hidden door and vanish beyond a false bookshelf that swings open to a restricted section—one that requires adult clearance.
Nestled just past the shelves of mature tomes, tucked discreetly behind double doors framed in mahogany and carved with gothic detail, lies a personal library—the nook—where every publication is a signed first edition.
Emory, with her coffee and Niven with her tea, settle into the gothic chairs under the only light source aside from the unlit candles—the fading sun.
Knowing the torches will soon roar to life the moment the luminosity of the sun dips past the horizon, I find a place in the shadows to obscure my presence from their view, giving myself permission to be mesmerized by my dove.
“Any New Year’s resolution?” Niven asks, the rim of her cup just below her lips, as she embraces the heat emitting from its contents.
“I haven't really had the time to think of that.” Emory answers in a dismal tone, “It's been one thing after another this week.”
“How so?” I look on as Niven presses for more answers. Frustration boiling, as the urge to charge out of my hidey-hole and ask her ‘what gives her the right to pry?’ gets stronger—I digress.
Then, Emory speaks and every bit of that washes away.
“Well, for starters, Yule started off with a bang.” Her giggle, although forced, was angelic.
“And a crash.” She continues, “Not to mention one of my worst hospital visits to date. Then-” her words begin to trail.
“Then a phone call, something about my sister and from the tone of it, it wasn't good. That’s what led me here.”
“Oh?” Niven’s forehead wrinkles with confusion. “Why would that bring you here?”
Emory stands and walks over to the reflective Palladian window, a clear view of the manor pictured before her.
Delicately, she idles her fingers over the glass, as if afraid smudges will appear in their absence and ruin its elegance.
“My sister’s rehab center is close to here.
I figured-” Her speech was hopeful as it fades into her next statement, “Since he wanted to see us—my father that is,” she stops to quickly glance back at Niven, then returns her gaze to the foreboding architecture looming mere feet in the distance. “That maybe he would help.”
The library door tolls, interrupting her. “Excuse me, dear, duty calls.” Emory gives a brief nod. “This is where I leave you, no worries, I’ll lock the door to give you privacy.”
Niven leaves the Nook after a swift gander in my direction, then disappears through the archway, closing the double doors—locking them behind her.
Emory waits for the sound of the lock to turn, giving time for Niven’s footsteps to fade away toward the storefront.
Once they get to a secure distance, she turns back to the window, her reflection a somber representation of longing.
I admire her. The way her messy hair gleams in the light from the setting sun. The innocent way the glow creeps across her skin, adorning it with an orange tint. Her hands move to her lips, and mine instantaneously begin salivating, building the desire to be pressed to them again.
A chain reaction starts as butterflies fight like rabid beasts in my gut, and my ears perk up to her gentle whisper. “Who are you?”
Her voice is like a siren’s song, looking to lure me to my death. She bites her lip, and the pulsating in my slacks grows stronger. My body is frozen, bewitched by her beauty as her fingers dance from one corner of her mouth to the other—pining, longing, bleeding through her pores.
Is she talking about me?
“Where are you now?” Her fingers slide down her chin. “Are you lurking somewhere, watching me?” She traces the faint lines left by my blade. Answering my question as if, eerily, she heard me.
I shake my head. That is impossible, so I speak, as to test it, “Yes, my dove. I marked my territory, and by the gods, don’t you look stunning in faint red lines,” I know I am whispering to myself, there is no way she can hear me at this distance.
Her dainty fingers trickle further to the hem of her blouse.
I stagger back from the look in her eyes.
I have seen this look... Is she.... I watch on with an-tici-pation.
She raises her free hand clamping it down around her throat, and my blood boils to the surface.
“Yes, there you go, little bird. Now, just a little harder.” Her fingers coil tighter as though on demand.
The indents are so deep exposing her heartbeat, revealing its quickened pace.
The hand that once rested against the cold glass of the window now cupping her right breast.
For. Fucks.Sake.
She has no bra on, and her nipples are already peaking, casting small shadows over the low bits of her perky, perfect breasts.
“What I wouldn't do to have those perfect tits pressed against the window, while I railed you from behind, little bird.” With a low, gravelly tone, the words are out before I can stop them.
She takes a sharp breath. Either she heard me.
.. or she pinched a little too hard—At this moment I could care less. She is here, and she is divine.
I pause for a moment to see which of my thoughts would play out, that's when the hand around her neck slowly moves—making its descent.
Assuming she doesn't hear me, I keep my tone low and famished, and in my mind, I fictitiously guide her pleasure.
“Slowly now, little dove. Feel the heat beneath your touch.” Humming as I fight the urge to follow suit, “Close your eyes. Imagine your touch is mine.”
Her movements glide past her chest, over her solar plexus. “Stop!” Adding a feral undertone, because if she could hear me, I know she would listen. “The right is lonely, dove. Give your glorious breast a little tease before you bypass it.”
My mouth is watering like a man with a sweet tooth at a cheesecake factory.
“Roll it between your fingers. Pinch and pull. Pinch. And. Pull.” My vocal cords vibrate as my tone drops another octave, “That’s my girl.
My little bird,” I take a deep breath, steadying myself.
“My dove!” Her hand shifts, allowing her right breast to settle into her palm.
They look so much bigger in her tiny hands.
She pinches and pulls like she is told, and I am too caught up in the moment to realize it.
I can feel my chest tighten as this seductress steals my breath away, all leading up to the moment her hand plummets over her belly to the button of her jeans.
She has the clasp and zipper open sooner than I can stop her.
“STOP!” Her hand freezes as her eyes shoot open. “Too fast, little bird.” My breathing is heavy, and my pants are stressing as my dick fights against the fabric.
“Who’s there?” Her voice is soft as her eyes dart in my direction.
When I don’t answer, she huffs with annoyance.
Then defiantly, as if to coax me out, her fingers dive beneath the fabric and begin slowly rotating.
She massages her chest a little longer, pinching and flicking—my heart and cock both ready to explode.
When I think she is close to finishing, she slams her hand hard on the glass pane, her back is to me now and arching with her ecstasy.
She moans, “Who are you?” The deliverance of her pleasure is more frantic, and at this point I can take it no longer.
I leave my place behind the bookshelf, closing the gap between her and I in two strides.
Strategically, I place one hand over hers as it struggles to supply her release, the other encloses around her neck.
Her hand stops for a moment, eyes open, and slate gray with hunger.
Massaging the top of her fingers through her jeans, I assist in guiding her satisfaction, lowering my face until my cheek meets her temple.
“Oliver.” My voice deepens. I breathe into her ear through the cloth on my face, then I shove my hand past the material—forgetting I took my gloves off, I am welcomed by her skin so soft against mine.
I proceed to use my hand to maneuver hers, pressing down onto her middle and index fingers, making them disappear inside her.
“Or Ollie.” My breathing is heavy with excitement.
The fabric on my face is aiding little to not at all, becoming my number one nemesis.
“Whichever you prefer, my dove.” The sweet aroma of her arousal fills my nostrils as I roll my fingers over hers assisting her, thrusting in and out. “Do you want release, little bird?” She nods, rubbing her cheek against the material concealing my face.
“How bad?” Oh my... fuck. Her scent of honeysuckle and vanilla is inebriating, and on my exhale, I growl in her ear. “Tell me, dove.”
“S-So, bad... please.” She begs, making my dick throb between the crease in her jeans as they hug her ass.
“Be a good girl for your phantom,” My tone is breathy, “Let go in… three.” I take my time counting down, absorbing every bit of her. The way she moans. Her invigorating fragrance. The seduction in her tone as she calls out demands, that up until this point I have only imagined.
This moment was better than anything my lonely mind has ever conjured.
“Two-” I let out a roar, pausing for just a moment, before giving my good girl exactly what she’s been waiting for.
“One” Her body convulses as she climaxes, and I inhale audibly, “Is that all for me, little bird?” I watch as her fear turns to desire—then she omits.
“Oliver,” her soft saccharine voice saying my name and the way her ass rubs against my erection forces me to unload in my pants, my body trembling with my release.
New craving unlocked: Emory fucking Selby with my name on her lips.