Her legs would swish against the sheets, and while a still image can’t capture the sound, it can capture the restlessness, the tension. It would show in the flex of her calf muscles, the pointing of her toes. It would be etched in her cheekbones as the skin pulls taut across her features. I’d capture her hand as it moved from her chest to her pussy. The light would follow. Her knuckles would point upward as she delved between her legs. Shadows would be cast by her thighs as her fingers disappeared. The light would catch on the moisture as she withdrew them, sparkling like gems just mined from the most hidden of caves. My camera would make love to her as she pleasured herself. The image would blur as her hand moved faster, as her fingers jacked in and out of her pussy, as the sounds of the wet suck of her sex echoed in the quiet night.
I gasp and come, the thick fluid splashing over my fist and covering my stomach. I close my eyes and lean back against the cold porcelain tank, imagining that it is my hand between her legs, my fingers knuckle deep in her cunt. It’s my mouth on her tits, suckling those nipples to tight, hard nubs, and, after she’s creamed on my hand, it’ll be my rod inside of her channel and we’ll be making those hot sex sounds together. I squeeze myself hard, milking all of the cum out until there’s nothing left in my tank.
One of these days this is going to be more than a bathroom fantasy. Either that or I throw myself out of a window. I heave my spent body to my feet and wash up. My camera’s the first thing my eyes land on when I exit the bathroom, and even though my fingers itch to pick it up, I force myself to the sofa. I don’t trust myself next to her in a bed.
There’s no sleeping, but I do a lot of staring at the ceiling. Abel had his people paint it, I think. There aren’t any dark marks on it. When dawn breaks, I get up and make breakfast. I don’t have a tray to put it on, but I do find some cups and plates in the cupboard that I didn’t own before. I’ll have to send a thank you gift to Pepper. Maybe Dove can pick it out for me. Once the eggs, sausage and toast are done, I go to wake Dove up, only to find that she’s already dressed and at my bedroom door.
“Breakfast?” I suggest.
“No.” She shakes her head stiffly. “I need to get to work.”
I glance at the clock. It’s still early, but maybe lawyers’ assistants need to get to work before everyone else. “Breakfast won’t take long.”
“I need to get ready.” She plucks at the front of my sweatshirt, which dwarfs her in the sexiest and most adorable way possible. “Thomas isn’t very forgiving about tardiness.”
“I bet he isn’t.” I glower. The mention of Thomas drives away my appetite, too. “You go get ready, and I’ll throw the eggs into a tortilla that you can eat in the Rover.”
“No. I’m good.” She edges toward the door.
I’m confused right now. Last night, she was eating pizza and wearing my clothes. She’s still wearing my clothes, but she’s acting like they’re too tight on her frame and that she can’t wait to get away from me. “I haven’t ridden on the train here. I’ll go with you.”
“No.” She gives me a fake smile, the one I know she gives Thomas, and that fucking sucks. “I’m good.”
I need to figure out how to rewind time and go back to before she fell asleep because I swear to God, we were moving in the right direction, but now? Now I feel like there’s a gulf between us that I can’t cross. “All right. You stay good, though, okay? Because it’s important to me that you’re happy.”
A quick flash of some emotion skates across her face. It looks like confusion, but I can’t be sure.
“Thanks.” She edges out of the door and then looks back, searchingly. “For everything.”
It sounds like she’s giving me the heave-ho, but even if she’s not interested now, even if she’s changed her mind, I’m not backing down. There are some things worth fighting for, and she’s one of them.TwelveDoveI stab a piece of sushi with my chopsticks before dipping it into the soy sauce and shoving the whole thing into my mouth.
“You do know that’s not how you eat that, right?” Avery asks. I can tell she’s trying not to laugh.
“I don’t judge you on how you eat your food.” I stab another piece, repeating the process. Taking all my frustration out on it.
“So what went so wrong that you’re now stabbing things? Something freak you out?” She wiggles her perfect brows. “Does he have three nipples or something?” I furrow my eyebrows at her strange questions. “Don’t knock someone having three nipples; it's really not a big deal.”