Chapter Fourteen — Jamie
He stayed locked in his office all day. It gave me the perfect excuse to avoid him, and that was exactly what I needed. He was pretending nothing had happened the night before, and I was doing the same. Our unspoken agreement. But pretending didn’t kill the tension simmering between us.
By the time darkness fell, my chest felt tight from holding everything in. He said goodnight like it was any other night. I gave him a tight nod, not trusting my voice.
I didn’t follow him to the bedroom.
I told myself I’d sleep on the sofa. It was safer. Wiser.
But the couch, no matter how expensive, felt wrong. I lay there for almost twenty minutes, eyes wide in the dark, counting every breath drifting down the hall.
Get it together, Jamie.
I adjusted on the cushions, but the pillows smelled like him. I groaned and dragged my nails down my own throat. What the fuck was wrong with me?
My body didn’t listen. Something pulled me up until I was standing outside his door. I told myself I was only going in for the bed. Not for him. Just for sleep.
The lie tasted weak, but I clung to it.
I slipped into the loft bedroom. The dim glow from the bathroom barely lit the space. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. I could tell he was awake—his breathing too fast, too loud.
I slid into bed on my side, facing away from him. Every nerve in my body hummed.
How long had it been since I wanted someone like this? Years. I hadn’t even thought about sex in years. But now the need clawed under my skin. My pussy was soaked, thighs slick with it. Absurd how badly this man unsettled and turned me on.
Why him?
I already knew the answer. It was the way he loved her. Deep. Broken. Eternal. Isn’t that what every woman secretly wanted? To be wanted like that. To be remembered even in grief. To be touched like you were holy.
I’d never had that.
I’d been fucked. Used. Wanted for what my body could give. But he touched me like I was more than skin and heat.
I wanted that again. Even if it was quiet. Even if it hurt. Even if I had to pretend.
My thoughts made me feel pathetic. I curled tighter, nails biting into my palms.
I envied a dead woman and lusted after the man who kidnapped me—the same man who was supposed to kill me.
I was about to get up when he touched me.
His fingers brushed my hip. Paused. Then dragged slowly along my waist. I didn’t pull away.
His hand slid lower, gripping my thick thigh, pulling me back until my spine curved against his hard chest. I let him. Sweat trickled down my spine. My heart slammed against my ribs as my soaked thong rubbed against my swollen clit.
His hand moved between my legs. I gasped into the pillow. My thighs parted for him on instinct.
He dipped a finger under the lace, finding my clit. His thumb brushed the sensitive bud and lightning shot up my spine, igniting a deep, throbbing ache in my core.
I bit my lip.
His thumb circled faster. I arched, biting down harder until I tasted blood.
This is wrong.
I don’t care.
My eyes squeezed shut. My hand slid behind me and found his dick — hard, thick, leaking. Hot and heavy in my palm. I gripped him tight and stroked slowly, relishing the way his breath fractured, the way his hips jerked into my fist.
His fingers worked me in perfect, filthy rhythm.
The tension coiled low in my belly, fast and vicious.
I didn’t cry out. Didn’t moan. I twisted the sheets in my free hand and came hard with my face buried in the pillow, pussy clenching around nothing as waves of shame and pleasure crashed through me.
What the fuck are you doing? The question screamed in my head even as my body shuddered.
This wasn’t strategy anymore. This wasn’t survival.
This was wanting. Stupid. Dangerous. Addictive.
I’d let men touch me before—for money, protection, a place to sleep. But I’d never wanted it. Not like this. What in the fuck would you call this? Vicarious grief?
His hand stayed between my legs, still moving slow, like he couldn’t let go either.
You’re digging yourself too deep, Jamie.
But my hand kept stroking him. And then he came hard across my thigh — hot, thick ropes of cum marking my skin. The sound of his pleasure had me feeling something I didn’t have a name for yet.
I And I didn’t want to name it.