Page 29 of Pretty When She Breaks

I took deep, juddering breaths, sinking to the floor and hugging my knees, thinking of the alpha with the bright smile.

Ocean.

It took a long time before I regained my control and finally stood to brush my teeth and get ready for the day.

As I strolled through the topiary garden, I looked like I did every day. Hair brushed and tamed, clothes tidy and spotless, makeup covering up all my cracks.

When I walked into my dressing room, I froze as I saw the empty basket the housekeepers had returned to me. The baskets were always returned; they were custom-made for my favours. I swallowed as I sat down, fingers playing with the wire embedded within the rim.

For the first time, I felt a lingering wisp of guilt as I transferred the recording to my laptop. But this was only common sense. I had to make sure Ocean wasn’t hiding anything.

Perhaps I’d find out he was a horrible person, and I could stop feeling so awful.

It wasn’t because I wanted to hear his voice again.

I locked the door to my dressing room and sat back in my chair, sliding my headphones on. My finger hovered nervously over the play button.

I started at the beginning, hearing my own breathing and footfalls as I made my way to his suite, then sped up the playback and listened to the whole conversation again.

“Don’t go... Do you want to come in?”

“…all right.”

A single step and a pause.

The sound of our bodies connecting, of that beautiful, desperate kiss. Of the bedsprings creaking as Ocean landed heavily, and my groan as I settled on top of him. Then my gasp. Footsteps on the floor, running, before leaving a heavy silence.

My heart ached as I relived that moment again. That wasn’t how our evening should have ended. In a different world, I would have gladly seen what would have come next.

“Fuck,” Ocean muttered, and then he repeated the curse, closing the door. There was the sound of the basket being put down, and some shufflingaround the room.

I imagined that I’d stayed with him instead, with that fire lit in my veins. Our bodies would press together, his hand sliding down to caress my curves. I could take my time and explore the muscles that lined his body. Trace the path of the water droplets down his pecs and over the ridges of his abs.

Silence.

The sink running in the bathroom.

Footsteps, getting louder and stopping.

I couldn’t stop my fantasy. I’d push him back onto the bed, and he’d watch with hooded eyes as I stripped off my clothes, each falling to a pile on the floor before I straddled him, reclaiming his mouth.

Then the sound of him rummaging through the basket. Another muffled curse, but this time in a reverent tone.

A deep breath.

He was picking things up, setting them to the side. Fabric sliding through his fingers. The crinkle of paper.

I found I couldn’t breathe. What had he been looking at? Was it the picture of me? The oil? The blindfold?

Another deep inhale, then a sensual groan.

My core throbbed as heat spread from my cheeks down my neck. He had wanted me; he’d surely found my scent in the basket.

Soft noises, fabric on skin, the rustling of sheets, and the slight protest of springs as he settled on the bed. The pop of the oil lid opening.

That was the sound of rustling fabric as he took his pants off, I surmised. Was he naked now, oil in hand, blindfold pressed to his face? Had he, too, been fantasizing about what would have happened if I’d stayed?

Another deep inhale.The slick sound of a hand rubbing against skin. A broken groan, a heady exhale.