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A growl rumbles in my throat at the memory of him with his hands on her. I’d watched them through the window of the bar. Sure, he’d played the good guy, but I could see the desire in his eyes. I saw the way he gripped her ass as if it belonged to him.
She does not belong to him.
Violet lets out a moan before muttering a name.
Vaughn.
Who the fuck is Vaughn?
Once again, I fist my hand to keep from grabbing her by the jaw and waking her up by telling her what a naïve woman she is.
Stalking away so I don’t do exactly that, I begin to look through her drawers. Everything is neat and has a place. There isn’t one ounce of clutter. Just like her desk at the office. It makes me wonder what she’s hiding. People who are minimalists do so in order to hide something big about themselves. If they have everything in a place, then they don’t have to stress about their past or shortcomings slipping through the cracks amidst the mess. They are able to keep a careful watch on every detail in their lives by keeping it all under the lid where it belongs.
I know this because I am this way.
My home is immaculate.
My business is organized.
My entire life is flawless.
The secrets I have stay neatly contained.
But her secrets, I will uncover. Her secrets are mine. I want them. I fucking crave them. After an annoying search that turns up nothing, I sit at the foot of her bed. Her breathing is soft and measured. If I didn’t think she’d flip the fuck out, I’d kick off my shoes and lie down beside her. My luck, I’d fall asleep and she’d wake up to find me there. Accuse me of things I’m not.
So I don’t lie down.
I don’t take off my shoes.
Instead, I think.
Where do I hide my secrets?
I have an old cedar chest that belonged to my mother. I’d taken it some twenty odd years ago when she first started losing her mind. Before she buried it in her insecurities. I’m not sure she even knows it’s gone. In that chest are my secrets. My past that has shaped and molded me. When I think about my past, it reminds me of someone. An error that will follow me for the rest of my life.
Adara.
Her pretty brown eyes haunt me. Hell, I believe they’ll haunt me until the day I die. I deserve to be continually reminded of those eyes. I’d made a mistake. It was a mistake that had nearly cost me everything. It altered my life in so many ways, I can’t even begin to count them. I’m here, standing right now in this sparse bedroom with a sleeping angel unaware of my presence, because of Adara.
With newfound purpose, I stalk over to her closet. Her suits are pressed and fairly expensive looking, but I know she’s not spending all of her money on clothes. They smell like her. Sweet and florally. Mine. I shove the thick coats out of the way and feel around behind the garments. Just like I’d imagined, I find a box. The shoebox, while much smaller than my cedar chest, holds answers about my Violet. I tug it free and bring it with me back into the room. Sitting back down at the foot of the bed, I remove the lid from the box and start rummaging around. Pictures, feminine hand-written notes, a hospital bracelet. The notes aren’t hers. I spent hours earlier at her desk and learned her handwriting. These notes are from someone who loves her.
Love you, Letty.
You’ll always be my Letty Spaghetti.
Enjoy your lunch, baby girl.
I realize that all of the notes must be from her mother. They’re all written on the same type of paper. The lined sheets with numbers at the top and the words “thank you” stamped on the back look like the type that waitresses use to take orders. I make note of the restaurant name imprinted at the top before pushing them to the side. The first picture I look at is of her and a woman who looks a lot like her. When I flip it over, I smile at the handwriting that I know is Violet’s.
Me and Momma ‘04
She’s wearing a graduation gown and a smile I’ve never seen before. Brilliant and hopeful. Proud. Her mother’s smile is just as big. Just as beautiful. They make a lovely pair. Sadly, I wonder if her mother died. But then it makes me think of my own mother. Irritation seeps through me, and I shove the picture on the pile of notes. Most of the other pictures are of Violet doing things. Then, I find one single picture of her with a man.
A flicker of hate ignites inside me.
The man with the grey eyes and severe glare with his arm draped possessively around Violet is a threat. I sense it. I can almost fucking taste it. It sours my stomach, and with a growl, I shove everything back into the box. She stirs on the bed, but I put everything back into the closet where it belongs.
When I re-emerge, she’s got her hand between her legs again. In her sleep, she touches herself and moans. There’s no rhyme or reason to her movements. Prowling over to her, I loom over her sleeping frame. I crave to push away her uncoordinated fingers and do the job for her. When she whimpers in frustration, I make a decision. I wrap my hand around her delicate wrist and help her along. Using her hand, I give her the speed she needs to reach her climax. Her cunt is probably hot against her fingertips. My dick thickens and pushes against my boxers, begging for its own taste of her.
Later.
This is about her, not me.
With measured movements, I continue my pace, guiding her own hand to push between her pussy lips and massage her throbbing clit. Those sexy whimpers of hers become moans. Louder and louder. Her body squirms and jolts in her sleep as I touch her. When she gasps once before shuddering, I know she’s found her release, even in her sleep. With another smile ghosting my lips—a smile only she can bring out of me—I allow myself the very thing I denied myself earlier. A simple taste. I draw her soaked fingers from her body to my lips. Smearing her juices all over my mouth, I grow impossibly harder with the need to push inside her gorgeous body. Instead, I suckle her fingers, removing every trace of her orgasm with my tongue. God, she smells decadent.
I gently rest her hand back on her stomach before covering her back up with the blanket. Her essence on my lips lingers, and I inhale her alluring scent. One day soon, I’ll have my face buried between her thighs. I’ll feast upon her perfect cunt whenever I want. She’ll beg for it. I’ll reward her because she’s so fucking gorgeous and deserving. With a flick of my tongue, I slowly lick my bottom lip. She tastes like sin. Swe
et, decadent sin. My cock aches to sink inside of her, but I ignore him for now. The morning sun is just starting to peek in through the blinds. It’s time I leave her be for a bit.
I drop to my knees and then flatten myself against the drab carpet that reeks of renters and stale cigarettes. It takes some maneuvering, but I manage to slide myself under the bed. Once I’m comfortable, with my face pointed toward the closet, I relax. I close my eyes and sleep. And for the first time in months, I sleep really fucking well.
See you soon, Violet.
CHAPTER FIVE
VIOLET
I WAKE with a start and jolt upright in bed. The sun blinds me, causing me to groan before shielding my eyes from the bright rays. I’m slightly disoriented and severely hung over. Shame trickles down my spine as I begin to recall fuzzy events from last night.
I’d all but dry humped Sean in a bar booth. Threw myself all over my future boss because I was high on memories of Vaughn and drunk off tequila. Because I haven’t been with a man in years, I craved his touch. The liquid courage was the catalyst for a night full of regrets.
But as soon as I’d given in to my desires, they were snuffed out like a single candle in a windowless room. Sean deposited me into the cab and then…
That’s where everything really went hazy.
I can’t recall a single memory from that point on.
Looking down, I cringe at finding that I’m naked. Panic climbs up my throat but I force it down quickly. Vaughn wasn’t here. It was all me. I’d undressed all by myself. A quick look around my room tells me that at least I didn’t tear my clothes off before fucking some random stranger either. There are no clues indicating I kept the party going last night. True to myself, even in a blacked-out state, I’d put my clothes away in the hamper. I’d put my shoes in the closet. The need to prove this overwhelms me, so I climb out of bed on wobbly feet. I grab the nightstand for support when the room spins around me.
