Page 8 of Our Little Cliche

Chapter Eight

CYRUS

Tonight had been eventful to say the least. One minute a six figure opportunity is dangling in front of me, and the next I’m striking a conversation with sex on legs—that woman from the pub.

I had stayed well out of her sight, catching only some of the conversation with the district’s best real estate agent. My old friend Izzy’s mother, Susan. I overheard something about starting over , a new life . And was then later given a key. Meaning she was moving somewhere nearby.

I wasn’t expecting to get so caught up on her.

But the girl is simply perfection. Clumsy, yes, but nonetheless perfect.

There’s no coincidence that she looks like my main female character.

No coincidence that she had my heart throbbing…

and other places. She’s everything I’ve ever dreamed of. And I don’t even know her name.

All I know is, I have to see her again.

Nope! I should not be doing this , I think to myself standing outside of the window to the cabin that I asked my taxi to follow hers to. It births a foreign feeling, discomfort doesn’t even cover the surface. This is so fucked up.

Wait, does this make me a stalker?

Fuck, it does. What’s worse, is that I still have her underwear in my pocket… and an erection that hasn’t budged since I met her. My moral compass finally enters my body and I fear what I’m feeling is far greater than a lusting desire to see her again. It’s a need.

I frown hearing the sound of her pained sobs coming from inside, cutting a part of me that shouldn’t so I brush my fingertips over the window to free some of the frost to get a better look. There she is, facing the wall on a blow up mattress, tucked under a few layers of duvets.

Why is she bathing in a flood of tears?

And why is she in a house with no furniture?

As far as I can see all that she is in possession of is the bag of books and clothes from earlier. It makes no sense as to why it hurts me to see her like this. I want to just go inside and cradle her from whatever hurt and pain she’s enduring.

“I really should not be doing this,” I growl as if saying it out loud will make any difference to when I had said it in my head thrice before that.

Something terrible must have happened for her to be crying like this.

I’ve seen my sisters go through some shit in our lives, but this was nothing alike.

Time passes waiting for her to settle, toying with her little, red laced panties in my pocket to distract me from knocking down her door and kissing her perfect rosy lips until whatever was going through her head simply vanished. But that’s not going to happen because I’m not the man in my books.

I’m not the man in my books.

I shiver, because part of me wants to be a gentleman, to go home and leave her in peace, but the other part of me wants to take away her strife by curling my tongue around her pussy like it’s the last thing I’ll ever do.

Suck, nibble, tease and please her sensitive little bud until her legs can no longer withstand her orgasms. And that air mattress becomes a waterbed.

That would definitely stop her from crying.

Hmm . The more I think about it, the more I become aware that there is something deeply wrong with me. Whatever spell this woman has cast on me is turning me into some kind of obsessed freak.

I start to realize that the room she’s in is getting darker and darker. The fire is slowly burning out. I look around to see if there is any more firewood or kindling inside, but there isn’t. She’ll be an icicle in a matter of hours and I can’t have her freezing to death.

With the light I have on my phone I can see that there’s a few wooden stumps, and an axe beside the property from an old milled log. I take a few away from the property a few houses down so that I don’t wake her, and begin chopping, splitting the rest open with my hands on my walk back.

After I stack the pile of chopped wood and kindling by the doorstep I check her from the window.

She is completely in the land of slumber.

I stay for a good while, waiting for another taxi home and the room only continues to lose its light.

Dammit, I need to get in there and stoke it.

When I try opening the front door I discover it’s locked.

Of course it’s locked. Why wouldn’t it be?

Am I really doing this… really going to commit a crime? Breaking and entering?

Yes, Stone, you are, because you’re an idiot obviously.

I tiptoe back to the window and pry at the frame, being careful not to cause too much noise and wake her in the process of the illegal activities .

If I get caught I’m done for. My career fucked for good.

I can see the headliners now—Wall Street Journal Bestselling Author Canceled .

Local Banff affluent, Cyrus Stone, was found breaking through a vulnerable woman’s window with an erection and a stack of firewood as weapons, and her underwear in his pocket.

Not. Helping.

With that haunting image in mind, I pull my woolen scarf up over my nose and my beanie down to the base of my brows, leaving my eyes and fingers the only revealing part of my body. Great, now I look even more like a criminal.

One by one I lower the cuts of timber onto the floor from the window, then climb through the gap—luckily without her stirring as this isn’t exactly a stealthy, silent move.

Windows were not made for big lumps like me to climb through without a grumph or oomph to come from my mouth.

Thankfully she’s a solid sleeper. Maybe I should steal her key and have it copied?

What the actual fuu… no . That’s sick. Why would I… why would I even think that? Have I lost my mind?

Oh my god, I have lost my mind.

Goosebumps coat my skin—my moral compass telling me that this is so incredibly wrong—as my boots concrete themselves to the ground by her bed.

If she woke up right now and worked out who I am behind the scarf, my chance with her would be gone before it even began.

My eyes stay pinned to her unconscious body beneath me.

She’s so beautiful. So vulnerable .

Jesus Christ, listen to me. I sound like one of my characters. That’s absurd. I’m not going to hurt her. To cause her any pain, stress, or discomfort is the last thing I’d ever want to do to this girl. I just want to… maybe I could… you know, fill her with?—

Firewood!

Fill her fireplace with firewood, Stone.

I take my time putting the solid pieces into the fire, blowing it slightly to catch the heat and occasionally looking over my shoulder to cast an eye on her. She remains completely blissful in a deep sleep, her chest rising and falling softly, even when I drop a piece of timber on the floor.

Definitely a solid sleeper.

I tsk mentally, shaking my head in disapproval for her leaving her window unlocked for strange men to just invite themselves in. Someone could kidnap her right now and she wouldn’t have any way to protect herself.

Does she not know of the monsters that lurk this world?

Doesn’t she know that bears are clever and can break in…

Oh, no.

Am I the bear?

No. I’m not the bear. I’m a good man. But fucking hell I’d be one if anyone laid a hand on her. My fists clench at the thought, as does my jaw. Why does the idea of someone else touching her anger me? I need to get out of here before I lose my mind.

Mentally hitting the reset button I breathe out deeply, closing my eyes to recollect my thoughts. Looking back, I fight the urge to tuck away the golden tresses that have fallen over her face. I’d risk too much now if she sees me.

When I’m back outside it’s as if I was never there, leaving no trace behind. Not even a boot mark in the snow. Unless you class the stack of spare wood I left for her by her door as evidence of my loitering. But despite it causing my brain to fry, Goldielocks will be warm.

I waste no time getting home and taking to my computer, my story fueled by inspiration. The plot thickening into wicked heats of desire. And what’s better, is that this girl has no idea that she’s just become not only my written obsession, but my living, breathing addiction .