Chapter 5
NASH
Ilean forward slowly and with deliberate caution. The way one might approach something fragile and feral, as if it could either bolt or bare its throat.
My lift my hand, suspending it for a long breath above the bare curve of her shoulder.
The black glove still sheathes my fingers, a familiar barrier and a necessary distance.
Then impulse overrides habit. I hook two teeth into the leather cuff and peel the glove away, slow enough that the sound of it sliding free feels intimate in the quiet room.
I drop it into my pocket, and just like that, bare skin meets air.
Blair lies on her front across the wide leather couch in the library, with her cheek pillowed on folded arms. The pale yellow cotton of her dress looks almost translucent in the moonlight, and clings to the dip of her spine and the gentle flare of her hips.
The hem has ridden high enough to bare the lace edge of her panties, stretched tight across the perfect swell of her ass.
The fabric cups her, outlining the shadowed cleft, the faint damp bloom at the center where her body has already betrayed her in sleep.
She is exquisite…unbearably so.
I have watched her all day from the safe room: the slow stretch when she woke, the way she pressed her thighs together against the lingering ache I left behind, the long shower where she disappeared as if trying to erase a dream she couldn’t name.
She found the whiskey glass in the kitchen and stared at it until her coffee went cold, then methodically searched the house, never discovering the hidden panel behind the books. Never finding me.
She drifted in here, into this forgotten room, browsing the spines before sinking into the couch that faces the sea and falling asleep waiting.
I can’t help but wonder if she’s waiting for me.
The realization coils through me like smoke, thick and intoxicating. I have waited hours for her to stir, to climb the stairs, and retreat to the safety of the guest room, but midnight arrived and the house settled. And still she remained in a deep and trusting sleep.
My cock has been hard for so long it feels like a separate heartbeat, thick and insistent against the confines of my jeans, every pulse a reminder of how close I am to breaking every rule I’ve set for myself.
I lower my hand, and my fingertips meet the warm silk of her upper arm first. The contact is immediate and devastating; a live current races up my arm and settles low in my gut.
Her skin is fever-hot beneath my palm, soft in a way that makes my throat close.
I trace the slope of her shoulder, the delicate ridge of her collarbone, memorizing the texture, the give.
She exhales a soft, dreamy sound that spears straight through me, but she doesn’t wake.
My other hand finds the small of her back, just above where the dress has ridden up.
I press gently, feeling the warmth of her through cotton so thin it may as well not exist. She sighs again, shifting her hips in that slow, unconscious rhythm she falls into when she dreams. The motion lifts her ass a fraction, stretching the lace tighter.
I swallow hard, my throat dry and mind unraveling thread by thread. I could stop here. I should stop here. But the dark thoughts come slowly anyway, with an inevitably I’m almost resigned to.
I could slide my palm lower. Peel the lace aside and feel how wet she is, how ready, how perfectly she would yield. I could press two fingers inside her while she sleeps, curl them and watch her hips chase the pleasure she doesn’t consciously understand.
Or I could bury my face between her thighs and taste the arousal she’s leaking for a phantom lover. Wake her with my mouth on her clit, my tongue circling until she comes shaking, her eyes flying open to find me masked and unrepentant behind her.
I could spread her wide and take her right here on this couch.
Free my cock, thick and aching, and slowly slide into her from behind, filling her inch by inch until she wakes gasping for a stranger, still half-lost in whatever dream has her this open and needy.
The images cascade, each one more depraved than the last, each one tightening the coil in my gut until I’m shaking with the effort not to act on them.
She whimpers softly again, her hips grinding down against the leather in a slow, helpless circle. The sound undoes me and I have to fist my free hand at my side in a last-ditch effort to keep me from reaching for my zipper.
Instead, I slide both arms beneath her, turning her slightly as I lift.
She is light and pliant against me. Her head falls against my chest, and her cheek presses to the leather of my jacket.
One arm drapes loosely around my neck, her fingers brushing the nape beneath the mask.
She murmurs something wordless, nuzzling closer, and the trust in that slight movement nearly breaks me.
I carry her out through the library and up the stairs in the atrium. Every step is measured, my arms burning not from her weight but from the sheer intimacy of holding her like this, in my arms for the first time, even if she’s still lost in sleep.
She doesn’t wake when I ease her onto the bed or when I draw the sheet over her.
I stand there, staring down at her flushed cheeks and parted lips, then reach out one last time and brush a strand of hair from her face. My thumb lingers on her cheek, tracing the soft curve, memorizing the warmth.
Tonight marks our first real touch. Not stolen in the darkness, or taken while she dreamed, but given. Because she’s here…she stayed. Even though she probably suspects I’m here, she chose to stay. And even in sleep, she leaned into me.
I step back, my chest tight and cock still throbbing, and my mind reels with everything I didn’t do. I take one last look at her, then leave the room, silently closing the door behind me.
Downstairs, I pour a whiskey with shaking hands and hold the glass, staring at the amber liquid, feeling the weight of what I’ve done…what I’ve started and more importantly…what I still want to do.
Tomorrow, she’ll wake. She’ll remember the ache and wonder, and I’ll be waiting. Watching, masked and depraved, no longer able to pretend this will end with simple observation.
Not anymore.