Chapter 7
NASH
The clock on the mantel ticks past midnight, its hands slicing through the silence like a blade.
I sit in the armchair again, the mask already strapped on and cool against my heated skin.
It’s become a ritual now—this waiting, this descent into the dark corners of myself.
The third night. Or is it the fourth? Time blurs when desire takes the wheel.
She’s up there, my enemy’s daughter. The girl who’s turned my sanctuary into her hideout, squatting in secrecy while the world spins on without her. But it’s only in these midnight hours that the truth sharpens: she’s no longer just an intruder; she’s a temptation I can’t excise.
Last night, I crossed a line when I touched her skin and felt her pulse dance under my fingers.
I picked her up and carried her. It was a spark, igniting something feral inside me.
Tonight, the pull is stronger, a gravitational force drawing me upstairs despite the voice in my head screaming to stop.
I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees, and listen. From upstairs, there’s…nothing. No rustling sheets, no frustrated sighs. She’s quiet tonight. I imagine she’s asleep already…but what if she’s waiting? The thought sends a punch of arousal low in my gut even as guilt claws at the edges.
I shouldn’t go up. I know this. She’s young, vulnerable, and tied to my past through her father—a man who’d kill me if he knew.
But the mask anonymizes me, turning me into a shadow of a figment.
It excuses the inexcusable. My hands flex on my thighs, gloved in black leather, barriers against the reality of touch.
Yet I remember the warmth of her skin from last night, how it lingered on my fingertips long after I fled into the dawn.
The waiting stretches, as minutes bleed into one another, and I imagine her up there, sprawled in sleep, oblivious.
Or not. What if she’s sensed me? What if her stillness is an invitation?
The idea hardens me instantly, my cock straining against my pants, an insistent reminder of how far I’ve fallen.
Finally, I rise. The floorboards know me now, and I navigate them silently, ascending the stairs like a thief in my own home. The air thickens as I climb, carrying faint hints of her—something floral, undercut with the salt of the sea and the warmth of a body at rest.
I ease the door open, and the first thing that catches my eye is the small, neatly folded note resting on the nightstand, placed beside a sleep mask and beneath the lamp like an offering.
My breath catches behind the mask.
I step inside and close the door almost fully behind me, sealing us in. For a long moment I simply stare at the note, my pulse hammering. Then I reach for it with gloved fingers, unfolding the paper with a care that feels almost reverent.
Her handwriting is neat, but there’s a slight tremble in some of the lines.
I don’t know who you are or why you’re here, but I know you were in the library today. I know you carried me to bed. If you’re watching me, leave the whiskey glass on the kitchen counter tomorrow morning. Please, just one glass so I know I’m not crazy.
I read it again, and then a third time.
Something dark and possessive blooms deep in my chest, spreading like ink through water.
She knows. Not everything, not yet…but enough.
She felt me. She remembers the sensation of being lifted, carried and placed gently in her bed like something precious.
And instead of running, instead of boarding up her door or calling the police… she left me a note.
She’s talking to me. Inviting me.
My cock, already hard from the sight of her sleeping form, throbs painfully against my jeans. I glance down at her. She’s dressed more sensibly tonight—soft navy pajama shorts and a matching button-up top.
The outfit is modest, almost innocent, and really, it should cool the fire raging inside me. If anything, the simple, everyday nightwear makes her look even more vulnerable. More untouched.
I move to the side of the bed, towering over her.
She lies on her back with one arm resting loosely above her head and the other across her stomach.
The top button of her pajama shirt has come undone, revealing the delicate hollow at the base of her throat.
Her lips are slightly parted as she breathes slow and deep.
I reach out, peeling the glove from my right hand with my teeth and bare my skin.
I brush my fingertips along her cheek, then lower, tracing the open collar of her shirt, grazing the soft swell of her tit.
She doesn’t stir. Only a tiny sigh escapes her, as if even in sleep her body recognizes my touch.
I read the note again, still clutched in my other hand.
If you’re watching me…
A low, possessive growl rumbles deep in my chest.
“Oh, I’m watching, sweetheart,” I whisper, voice rough and dark behind the mask. “I’ve been watching you for a long time now.”
The note trembles slightly between my fingers. She isn’t afraid, and there’s curiosity woven through her words, perhaps even a hesitant invitation. She wants proof. She wants to know she isn’t imagining me. She wants me to keep coming back.
The realization sends a fresh wave of dark hunger rolling through me, thick and intoxicating. I fold the note slowly and slip it into my pocket, pressing it close to my chest like a trophy. She thinks she can give me instructions. She thinks she can summon me with a little note and a demand.
She has no idea how wrong she is.
I won’t be leaving a whiskey glass. I won’t bow to her little test. If she wants proof of me, she’ll get it when I decide, on my terms. Not hers.
Tonight, I simply stand over her, drinking in the sight.
She looks like a fairytale princess. Sleeping Beauty laid out perfectly for her dark prince to find, waiting for something dangerous to break the spell.
Except this is no fairy tale, and I am no prince.
Her body begins to move, and she slowly turns over, unconsciously and utterly telling. Her hips roll in a lazy, dreamy rhythm against the mattress, pressing down, then lifting slightly, seeking friction in her sleep.
The soft fabric of her pajama shorts rides higher with each subtle shift, stretching across the swell of her ass. A breathy sigh escapes her, almost a whimper. Her thighs part a fraction more, knees falling open as her back arches just enough to push her tits against the cotton top.
She’s fantasizing.
Right now, in this very moment, while I stand over her masked and silent, she’s dreaming of being fucked.
My cock strains painfully against my jeans, throbbing with every slow roll of her hips.
I wonder who she sees behind her closed eyes.
Is it the masked stranger who carries her through the dark?
Is it my hands spreading her thighs, my cock sliding into her while she’s still half-lost in sleep?
Does she moan for me in her dreams the way she does when she’s awake?
The thought is maddening.
I don’t touch her. Not tonight. I won’t give her the satisfaction of knowing how deeply she affects me.
Instead, I simply watch every delicate roll of her hips, every faint flutter of her lashes, every quiet, needy sound that slips from her lips.
She’s chasing pleasure in her sleep, lost in a fantasy she would probably deny in the daylight.
Sleeping Beauty indeed.
And I am the monster standing at the foot of her bed, hard and aching, savoring every unconscious movement as she fucks someone in her dreams.
I stay there for a long time, committing every detail to memory, letting the sight brand itself into my mind. When I finally force myself to step back, it takes every ounce of willpower I possess.
At the door, I pause for one last look.
She’s still moving, her body twisting and turning. Slow and rhythmic, her hips rising and falling against the mattress in that helpless, dreamy search for release. Her lips are parted, cheeks flushed, and body completely surrendered to whatever fantasy has her in its grip.
Unaware and unchanged as I silently leave her.
But the image follows me downstairs like a ghost…her body rocking so sweetly in her sleep, lost in a dream I desperately hope features me.
I drink a gulp of whiskey straight from the bottle, though my blood is anything but calm.
Tomorrow there will be no glass on the counter. I’ll let her wonder, let her ache, and she’ll quickly learn exactly who is in control here.
I collapse into the chair, my body thrumming with the release I’ve denied. Dawn will come, but so will tomorrow night, and I know I'll return. And next time, I’ll take things up a notch.