And again.
And again.
A smile tugs at my mouth.
Shit.
I really am in her head. It’s a strange position to be in when for years all I wanted was to be in her arms, in her bed.
It didn't even take much to let her thoughts become obsessive about me, at least I have that going for me after the shitshow that was last night. I still can’t figure out if she’s a really good liar or if she didn’t know about the money and my mom. If the latter is true then my dad did me dirty for not just half my life but my entire life. Good thing I’m going to annihilate his entire dynasty.I tilt my head, is she crying? She swipes at her cheek and seems to give herself a pep talk.
Which means the guilt must be eating her alive.
Good.
Let it.
Let her choke on it the same way I have for years.
Guilt I couldn't save her.
Guilt I was too late.
Guilt I missed every sign because I was too focused on my own shit.
Guilt that I didn't know.
Guilt can go fuck itself.
I stay far enough back that she won't catch my cologne. Made that mistake already and regretted it for throwing me off my plan and her off her axis a bit too soon.
Amazing what the body remembers.
Certain scents.
Certain touches.
Certain people.
For years she was the one thing that made the noise in my head stop. Her voice, the way it would roll over me and comfort me, though it was a pathetic stand-in for what I used to have, her in my arms, in my bed. At least I still had her voice since I could no longer stand the person or trust she wouldn’t knife me in my sleep.
And now?
Now I plan on becoming such a permanent fixture in her life that eventually I'll start looking like the hero.
Amusing, how easy it is to manufacture perspective. It takes a few slight changes and boom, a shift occurs. She walks into the mailroom, this time, no longer looking over her shoulder but focusing like hell on the little box in front of her. Will it? Won’t it? Is she sweating? God, I hope so. I hope her entire body ison fire. My eyes trace the curve of her ass, the way she puts her hands on her hips before bending over towards her box. And I realize, in this moment, I am a completely unwell with how fantastic her jeans fit. Tight. So tight, I wonder if the threads would stretch out from the slap of my palm.
Fuck. I could grab ahold. Hard. Slap. Punish. Kiss. Tame. Fuck. Blood roars in my ears as I watch her as I try to slow down the intrusive thoughts and stop imagining myself slamming her body against those same mailboxes.
I was locked away too long.
I was gone too long.
The temptation to grab her and apologize later is too much. I want to punish her with my mouth, forget words, they’re useless, words spout lies, but my tongue will show her the truth that she won’t ever have it better than me, she won’t ever find it, no matter how hard she searches.
The cruelest sort of torture would be showing her how good it would be between us only to rip it away and laugh in her face, but I’d be torturing myself in the process, because even right now I’m having a hard time keeping myself from taunting her, from quite literally having a serious reason to go back to my room so I don’t do something stupid. Arousal refuses to leave it hit and wont’ let go so now all I can do is watch. My hand slides down the front of my pants, briefly, it’s enough for a low groan to escape. Enough. Not here. Not now. But it would be so good.
She’s in the mailroom now. I can’t see her. Maybe that’s a good thing. I need to cool off. Badly. I follow a few seconds later and stop near the entrance.
