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That hard glare fixed on me in the same silent accusation I still don’t understand—and the mystery is thrilling.
Don’t do it.
I have to fight myself when I want to be bold.
I want to feel the adrenaline of almost-fear as I reach for him and drag him down to kiss him, beg him, make him admit that this is real and that I wasn’t misreading the smolder in his eyes.
I can’t.
I can’t.
He’s still infatuated with the idea of his dead wife. He’s not interested in me beyond our sham; it was just an uncontrollable physical reaction. It was just—
A lost moment.
August drops his arm and pulls back, then turns away from me and releases me from the paralyzing spell of his eyes.
So cold.
Like frostbite, stinging so deeply it burns.
“This way,” he says. “I’m having one bathroom reworked and another guest room shower’s out of commission this week, so there’s only one other bathroom, unfortunately—the master bedroom en suite. You’re welcome to use it first if you’d like to shower and sober up before bed. Assuming you prefer to wake up without a hangover.”
I start to insist that I’m not drunk again, but right now I’m not sure I’d believe it, when I’m reacting to every little thing about him so powerfully, my body so sensitive and hungry.
So I keep my mouth shut and trail after him, keeping enough distance so I won’t lose any sense of pride and beg him to fuck me until I can’t stand it.
But I still notice the way his shoulders tense, making his shirt draw tailored tight up against his chest and down to the taper of his waist.
Or how his hands clench and unclench, big knuckles knotting into powerful ridges against his skin, silent agitation in rhythmic motion that matches my racing pulse and the wanting throb between my thighs.
He takes me through a few corridors lit with gold and cloaked in shadows.
The hallways have an almost spiral layout, branching off to the three interconnected octagons that allow every room to face the water. The last octagon is his bedroom—all windows on six sides, facing away from the shore so it’s just water and sky.
Absolutely beautiful.
The room is just like August—utilitarian but elegant, decorated in warm wood tones and countering neutral greys. The walls are diagonal interlaced slats of varnished gold brown bamboo, the bed wide and pillowy with a bookshelf headboard of weathered wood.
I want to look at the books, to know what he reads late at night until he passes out at some ungodly hour. But if I get an inch closer to that bed, I’m going to do something impossible to take back.
The tension chokes me.
And it almost snuffs the life out of me as he gestures to a door on one of the two interior walls, its seams almost hidden in the paneling.
“Bathroom,” he says tersely. He’s not looking at me at all. Pointedly. “Everything you need should be there; feel free to use anything you like. I’ll prep you a guest room. Call for me when you’re done.”
Come with me, I want to say. Half an hour under the steaming spray together.
Just come with me.
Before this thing between us cuts me to pieces, while you stay whole.
For once, I can’t be bold.
I can’t be brave.
I can’t be bright.
