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Not because I want him here.
I’m crazy for not climbing out that window right now, for sinking further into this bathtub instead of trying to sneak out into the night.
I breathe a fake sigh, telling myself I’m relieved I’m alone and he’s somewhere else in this gorgeous house. He’s not coming. This is a do-it-yourself kind of job. I plunge my hand back into the water, fingers creeping between my legs. Lifting my ass from the bottom of the tub, I grip the silicone handle of the plug and give it a little tug.
Nothing happens.
Groaning, I let go, my hand floating to the surface. For a moment, I consider calling for him. That would be even more humiliating than figuring it out on my own.
Do you pull it out fast, like ripping off a Band-Aid? I don’t think so. I remember how it felt when he was putting it in—a slow ease, a fullness. Determined, I grip the handle. “Come on. Don’t be a baby.” I tug harder, like I mean it, and I gain some traction this time. I keep pulling, the middle of the toy widening my channel as it moves downward. Finally, it pops out.
I wiggle my hips. Where there was fullness is now an aching emptiness. Of course, my traitorous mind goes straight to the thought of him fulfilling his promise. What would it feel like if he were to take me… there?
My pussy clenches at the thought. “Me first,” she says. Greedy little thing, not wanting to be overlooked byhim.His mouth. His fingers. His… well, we all know what I’m imagining.
I leave the toy in the bath, hiding under the bubbles. I can’t look at it. I’ll deal with it in the morning. Moving to the shower, I rinse the bubbles from my skin, scrub everywhere, then wash my hair. I’m so tired I debate sleeping on my wet hair, but let’s be honest, I always complete the task at hand.
Shivering, I dress quickly and climb into bed, enveloped by the luxury of Egyptian cotton, and high thread counts, and my warm, clean hair. My head rests on the pillow brought from home, and my quilt is pinched between my fingers, like a child with a special blanket.
I wake restless in the unfamiliar, luxurious setting of my room. Still, being in a new house, and such a different one to my own, I can’t sleep. I don’t know what comes over me, but now I’m tiptoeing down the hall to his room, praying his hardwood floorboards don’t squeak.
I enter his room, staring at him as he sleeps. He looks so peaceful, so innocent. I know better. His eyelids blink open.
At first, I detect irritation in his eyes. My heart drops. I turn to leave. In my weakness, I take a last look at him. I find confusion in his gaze, not annoyance.
He’s barely awake, if even.
Lifting the blanket with trembling fingers, I crawl into his bed.
I hold my breath as my skin hits the cold sheets in the empty place next to him, and I await the humiliation of his rejection.Instantly, he surrounds me—warm and protective. He smells of clean soap and a sleeping man.
The adrenaline that hardened my muscles as I crept down the hall now slowly releases, softening me. He buries his face in my hair. The barely there scruff along his chin scrapes lightly over my skin. Tingles dance over my scalp as he nuzzles against my neck.
I melt into the protective cocoon of his embrace.
He seems like a heavy sleeper. I’m an early riser, and I can sneak out before he wakes up. I allow myself to sleep.
At four a.m., my eyes pop open like they’ve done every morning since I hit puberty. I find the habit annoying, but my grades don’t come easily, and with as much effort as I have to put into my schoolwork, I’ve often counted it as a blessing. Now, my ungodly natural wake-up hour allows me to leave undetected.
It’s bad enough I wished for him when I was in the bath—did I have to come crawling into his bed last night, too? Like a lost little girl awakened by a nightmare, tiptoeing into her father’s room for warmth, security, and comfort.
I move slowly, creeping out from under his arm. He moans, turning onto his back. His face—angelic and peaceful—is so beautiful that a pang tears through my chest at the sight. The same feeling came over me during our school trip to Rome when we toured the Sistine Chapel.
Still, I don’t know why I came to him.
I press the fluffy duvet around him, hoping the blanket’s warmth will keep him asleep. Then, I crawl to the edge of the mattress.He moans again and turns toward the wall, his naked back now facing me: smooth olive skin, curved muscles.
His shoulders… those are man shoulders.
I fight the urge to crawl back under the covers and press my face against his warm, bare skin. I won’t. I am more intelligent than that.
After my foolish decision to sneak into his bed in the first place, I need to leave and get to my schoolwork. I slip from the room, pulling the door almost closed behind me but not engaging the latch. I can barely believe I chose him for my comfort on my first night away from home.
I wash my face and brush my teeth and hair in my room. Then, I quickly put on black joggers, a white T-shirt, and a gray hoodie from home. I leave my hair down and head to the door. Passing the mirror, I glance at my reflection.
I look…presentable.
Should I at least put on a little mascara?