3. Wraith
WRAITH
Two weeks of sweet torture, and I was losing my fucking mind.
Every morning, finding Raven in my kitchen wearing those tiny sleep shorts that barely covered her perfect ass.
Every evening, watching her cook dinner in my space like she belonged there.
Every night, lying in my bed knowing she was twenty feet away wearing my old Army t-shirt she'd claimed from my laundry.
This morning was worse. I'd walked out of my bedroom to find her asleep on my couch, one leg thrown over the armrest, my shirt riding up to expose the soft curve of her hip. No panty line. Christ. The sight had me gripping the doorframe hard enough to leave marks in the wood.
The shirt had ridden up further, exposing the gentle swell of her stomach, those curves that made my hands ache to touch.
The morning light from the window painted her skin gold, highlighting every dip and swell I'd been fantasizing about.
She shifted in her sleep, the movement making the shirt slip higher, revealing the underside of her breast, and I had to turn away before I did something unforgivable.
Like drop to my knees beside the couch and wake her with my mouth.
I forced myself into the kitchen, starting coffee with movements made choppy by frustration.
Two weeks since she'd moved in. Two weeks of Blade dropping by at random times like he could sense when my control was about to snap.
Two weeks of cold showers that did nothing to ease the constant state of arousal.
Two weeks of jerking off in said shower with her name on my lips, imagining those soft thighs wrapped around me.
"Morning." Her sleep-rough voice made every nerve fire.
I didn't turn around. Couldn't. Not when she sounded like that, all warm and soft from sleep. "Coffee's almost ready."
"You're up early." I heard her moving closer, bare feet on my kitchen floor.
"Couldn't sleep." Truth. I'd spent half the night staring at my ceiling, imagining her in my bed. Under me. Over me. Wrapped around me while I buried myself so deep we'd forget where I ended and she began.
She moved into the kitchen, and vanilla filled the air—some lotion she used that was driving me insane. "Bad dreams?"
"Something like that."
"Want to talk about it?"
I finally turned, immediately regretting it. Her hair was a mess of waves, cheek still creased from the couch cushion, my shirt hanging off one shoulder. She looked thoroughly debauched, like I'd already had my hands on her. My cock went from interested to demanding.
"No." The word came out harsher than intended.
Hurt flickered across her features before she masked it. "Okay." She turned to reach for a mug, and the shirt rode up again, flashing the bottom curve of her ass. No underwear. Jesus fucking Christ.
The doorbell saved me from doing something stupid. Except it was seven in the morning, and nobody visited this early unless—
"Open up, asshole. I know you're awake."
Blade.
Raven's eyes went wide. She was still wearing just my shirt. I know how this would look if Blade saw that.
"Bedroom. Now." I was already moving to the door, buying her time.
She ran, bare feet slapping on hardwood, my shirt riding up to flash her perfect ass. The image would be burned into my brain forever. I adjusted myself, grabbed a dish towel to hold strategically, and opened the door.
"Bit early for social calls," I said, blocking the doorway.
Blade pushed past me anyway, already dressed for the day in jeans and his cut.
"Tiffany needed the apartment. Something about deep cleaning and me being in the way.
" He collapsed on my couch—the same couch where Raven had just been sleeping, where her scent still lingered.
"Figured I'd hang here until the coast is clear. "
"How long?"
"Hour, maybe two." He studied me with those too-sharp eyes. "You look like shit."
"Thanks."
"Raven keeping you up? I know she's been having nightmares. Used to have them as a kid too, after our mom died."
I didn't know about nightmares. She hadn't mentioned them, but then we were both carefully maintaining distance during daylight hours. At least until we inevitably ended up too close, breathing the same air, fighting the pull. "She's fine."
"She up yet?"
"Shower," I lied, just as the bathroom door closed loudly. Good girl.
Blade relaxed into the couch, and I saw him notice things. Raven's book on the coffee table. Her sweater draped over the chair. Her coffee mug from yesterday still sitting by the window. Little pieces of her invasion that I hadn't even noticed accumulating.
"She's comfortable here," he observed.
"It's temporary."
"Right." He grabbed the remote, flipping on ESPN. "Mind if I make some eggs? I'm starving."
"Go for it."
While he banged around my kitchen, I tried not to think about Raven naked in my shower.
Water sluicing over those dangerous curves, soap sliding down her skin, her hands touching places I wanted to map with my tongue.
My hands clenched, and I forced myself to focus on the game highlights Blade had turned on.
"You following the season?" Blade asked from the kitchen.
"Not really." Hard to focus on baseball when his sister was slowly driving me insane.
He cracked eggs into a pan. "Maybe you could help Raven with her resume. She's got that interview at the bank today."
"She mentioned it."
The shower shut off. Five minutes later, Raven emerged fully dressed in jeans that hugged every curve and a sweater that clung just enough to make my jaw clench. Her hair was still damp, face flushed from the hot water.
"Morning, brother," she said, kissing Blade's cheek like she hadn't just been wearing nothing but my t-shirt.
"Hey, Rave. Sleep okay?"
"Like the dead." She grabbed coffee, careful not to look at me. "What brings you by so early?"
"Tiffany kicked me out. Apparently, I'm not helpful when she's cleaning."
"Shocking," Raven said dryly. "The man who thinks laundry is suggestions and dishes are optional isn't helpful with cleaning."
"I've gotten better," Blade protested. "Tiffany's training me."
"Poor woman deserves hazard pay."
They fell into easy sibling banter while I stood there like an idiot, trying not to notice how Raven's jeans hugged her hips.
How her sweater revealed just a hint of cleavage when she leaned over to steal bacon from Blade's plate.
How she unconsciously moved around my space like she owned it, knowing where everything was, comfortable in a way that made my chest tight.
"I should head to the garage," Blade said finally, standing and stretching. "You still got that interview?"
"Eleven o'clock at First National."
"Good luck. Though I still think you should just stay here. Pike Creek needs good people."
"We'll see how it goes."
He headed for the door, then paused. "Keep an eye on yourself today, Rave. And Wraith—thanks for taking care of her. I know it's a pain in the ass having her underfoot."
The weight of that statement—the trust in it—made guilt churn in my stomach. If he knew what I'd been thinking about his sister, how close I'd come to acting on it multiple times, he'd put a bullet in me without hesitation.
"It's no problem," I managed.
After he left, the apartment felt too small. Raven stood by the window, coffee mug cradled in her hands, sunlight making her skin glow.
"You didn't have nightmares," I said.
She turned, surprised. "What?"
"Blade said you've been having nightmares. You haven't. I would have heard."
"How do you know I haven't?"
Because I lay awake listening to every sound from your room. Because I know the rhythm of your breathing when you sleep. Because I'm so hyperaware of you I'd know if you stubbed your toe.
"Thin walls," I said instead.
She moved closer, and I should have stepped back. Should have maintained the careful distance we'd been pretending to keep. Instead, I stayed put as she invaded my space, vanilla and warmth and temptation.
"You know what I dream about?" Her voice dropped low, intimate. "You."
"Raven—"
"Every night. I dream about that almost-kiss in the hallway.
About what would have happened if Blade hadn't called.
" She set her mug down, hands now free to torture me.
One finger traced the edge of my t-shirt collar, not quite touching skin.
"I dream about your hands on me. Your mouth. How you'd feel—"
I caught her wrist, stopping her before my control shattered completely. "You're playing with fire."
"Maybe I want to burn."
"You don't know what you're asking for."
"Don't I?" She pressed closer with her whole body, and I felt every soft curve against my harder planes. "I know exactly what I want. Question is how much longer you're going to pretend you don't want it too."
I released her wrist and stepped back, needing distance. "You should get ready for your interview."
Disappointment flashed across her face, but she nodded. "Right. The interview."
She disappeared into her room, and I escaped to mine, closing the door and leaning against it. My cock was so hard it hurt, and the image of her in my shirt, no panties, that perfect ass, was going to haunt me forever.
An hour later, she emerged dressed professionally—pencil skirt, blouse, heels that made her legs look incredible. "How do I look?"
Like every fantasy I'd ever had. "Professional."
"That bad?"
"No. You look..." Perfect. Devastating. Like I want to bend you over my couch and make you forget your own name. "You look great."
"Thanks." She grabbed her purse. "Wish me luck."
"You don't need luck."
She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Everyone needs luck when their ex has sabotaged their entire career."
After she left, I tried to focus on work, but concentration was impossible. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her in my shirt. Felt her pressed against me. Heard her saying she dreamed about me.
Two hours later, she returned looking defeated.
"That bad?" I asked, looking up from my laptop.