Chapter 4
BLAIR
Iwake later than usual, not abruptly or in fear, just… aware.
It’s the kind of waking that feels like surfacing through warm water, slow and heavy, and accompanied by the certainty that something has already happened and I’m only catching up now.
My eyes open to the bright wash of late morning filtering through the narrow gap in the door, and for a long moment I lie very still, cataloguing what feels different.
My body is the first thing that registers…
a deep, throbbing ache low in my belly and between my thighs, pulsing in time with my heartbeat.
My clit feels swollen and sensitive even against the soft lace of my panties, and when I shift my hips—just a fraction—the friction sends a sharp, involuntary spark through me.
I’m wet. The lace clings uncomfortably, the fabric damp and cool where it shouldn’t be.
My inner thighs are slick, the sheet beneath me slightly damp in a small, telling circle.
Heat floods my face, then lower, in a confusing rush of embarrassment and something darker.
I press my thighs together and bite my lip against the fresh throb that follows. My nipples are hard, almost painful against the thin tank top, and when I brush a hand across one, just testing, the jolt is so intense I gasp.
Someone was here. The thought lands definitely, and without panic. The air in the room is carrying the faint trace of something that isn’t mine, something like leather and clean male skin. It clings to the pillow beside me, to the blanket twisted at my waist, and to the very sheets beneath me.
I swallow sharply and know with certainty that I had one of those dreams again.
The kind that only come when I’m so deep in sleep I don’t remember falling.
The kind where I’m being touched, possessed, owned…
relentlessly, without ever seeing a face.
Last night I felt it even before I fully woke…
the weight of eyes on me, the shift in the air, the certainty of being watched.
I thought it was part of the dream. Now I’m not sure.
I sit up carefully, and the sheet slides off my body, releasing more of that scent into the air.
It clings faintly to my skin, to the tank top bunched under my breasts, to the damp lace between my thighs.
I press my palm to my lower stomach, feeling the low, insistent ache, and the way my body still flutters faintly with aftershocks of something I didn’t consciously experience.
I need a shower, I decide. Leaving the bed, I move quietly to the adjoining bathroom and strip quickly, letting the tank and panties fall to the tile. I step under the hot spray and water hits my skin like a shock, too hot at first as my body slowly acclimatizes.
I stand there with my head tipped back, letting the water cascade over my face, down my shoulders, and over my breasts.
My hands move almost on their own, sliding soap across my body and lingering between my thighs where the ache is deepest. I wash slowly, carefully, trying to rinse away the evidence of whatever happened in the night.
But the throbbing doesn’t fade. If anything, it deepens, as though my body remembers more than my mind does. After shutting off the water, I step out and dry off, pull on fresh underwear and a loose sundress, and head downstairs.
I descend slowly, trailing one hand over the railing, every sense sharpened and expecting—irrationally—to catch someone mid-movement, to see a shadow retreat, or a door swinging shut. But there’s nothing.
I reach the kitchen, and as I begin to make coffee, I stop abruptly.
Right there on the counter, near the sink, sits a glass.
It’s a low, heavy-bottomed tumbler. A smear of amber clings to one side, the faintest ring left behind as the liquid settled and evaporated.
I stare at it for a long moment before picking it up and inhaling.
Immediately, the smell confirms it's whiskey.
My stomach tightens. Whiskey is not something I would ever drink. The glass wasn’t there last night, and I know this because I washed everything before bed, a habit born of nerves and too much time to think.
I set the glass down carefully, as if it might shatter under too much pressure. Someone didn’t just pass through. Someone stayed.
Fear, anger, and disbelief hit me all at once, but beneath them all is a quieter, more dangerous current. One of curiosity.
I move through the house, checking doors and windows, inspecting corners, half-hoping to find something overt, something dramatic enough to justify panic. Everything is exactly where it should be, except for one thing. The library door is ajar, and I’m certain I left it closed.
I hesitate in the doorway, then step inside.
The room is cooler than the rest of the house; the shelves are lined with books that look untouched for years. It smells faintly of old paper and leather bindings, like a place that’s been waiting.
This room always felt different, more personal somehow, like the house briefly remembers who it belongs to when you’re here. I’d avoided it instinctively, the way you avoid touching things that don’t feel like yours. But today I don’t.
I wander the shelves slowly, trailing my fingers along spines, pulling out volumes at random.
A worn copy of Moby Dick. A collection of poetry with yellowed pages.
A leather-bound ledger that looks as if it might contain accounts from decades ago.
I don’t open any of them. I just hold them, letting the weight ground me while my mind spins about what I should do.
Call the police? Tell them someone’s been in the house I’m illegally occupying? Explain the whiskey glass, the scent, the ache between my legs that feels too real to be only a dream?
Logic tells me to run, to pack a bag and disappear again. But that pull of curiosity…the same one that washed over me when I first woke is urging me to stay and wait. To see what happens when night comes.
The thought sends a shiver through me—fear and something else, something that makes the ache flare hotter. I sink into the deep, oversized couch by the window. The leather is worn and still holds a faint trace of that same scent of whiskey, leather…and man.
My body is heavy, still humming from the night, still unsettled. I tell myself I’ll just rest my eyes. Just for a moment.