"Tell me something," I say, desperate to change the subject. To think about anything except my failures. "What did you love most? Before Nathan, before everything. What made you happy?"
She's quiet for a moment, considering. "Museums," she says finally. "I used to spend entire Saturdays at art museums. Would bring a sketchbook and just... sit. Look at the paintings, try to understand what the artist was thinking. Why they made the choices they made."
"You draw?"
"Used to. Not very well, but I enjoyed it." A small smile touches her lips. "My mom always said I had more appreciation than talent, which was her nice way of saying I sucked."
"I doubt that."
"No, she was right. I'm much better at analyzing art than creating it. Which is why I wanted the art history degree. I wanted to work in a museum, help curate collections, and write catalog descriptions. Make art accessible to people who might be intimidated by it."
The passion in her voice when she talks about it does something to me. Makes me want to give her that dream back, fund the degree, buy her a fucking museum if that's what it takes to see her light up like this more often.
Dangerous thoughts. Dangerous impulses.
"What stopped you?" I ask, though I already know the answer.
"Mom and Dad died. Car accident, very sudden. They had some life insurance, but not enough to cover both the funeral costs and my tuition. I had to choose between finishing school or keeping my health insurance." She shrugs, but I can see the pain underneath. "Then I met Nathan six months later, and he said I didn't need to work, that he'd take care of everything. It seemed like a gift at the time."
"It was a trap."
"Yeah." She pulls her knees tighter to her chest. "Took me a while to figure that out though. By the time I did, I was already caught."
We sit in silence for a moment.
I should leave. Should let her get some rest, put distance between us before I do something stupid like cross this room and pull her into my arms.
Before I tell her that I've been obsessed with her for two years, that she's haunted my dreams and my waking thoughts in equal measure, that having her here in my house is both the best and worst thing that's ever happened to me.
"Richard?" Her voice is soft, hesitant.
"Thank you for staying. For listening. I know it's late, and you probably have work in the morning, and I'm keeping you from—"
"You're not keeping me from anything. There's nowhere else I'd rather be right now than here, making sure you're okay."
The smile that spreads across Belle's face at my words is devastating. It's the kind of smile that could bring a man to his knees, that could make him forget every rule he's ever lived by, every boundary he's sworn to maintain.
My cock throbs against my pajama pants, straining harder at that smile. At the way her eyes light up, the way her whole face transforms from haunted to hopeful. I shift slightly, keeping my leg positioned to hide the obvious bulge, and pray she's too innocent or too tired to notice what she's doing to me.
"You should try to get some sleep," I say, my voice rougher than I intend. "It's late. Or early, depending on how you look at it. You need rest."
"Will you be okay? You said you don't sleep much."
The concern in her voice for me, when she's the one who just escaped hell, makes everything worse. Makes me want things I have no right to want.
"I'll be fine. I'll probably work for a while, answer some emails." I force myself to stand, ignoring the way my body protests the movement. "But you're safe here, Belle. The doors are locked, the security is active, and I'm right downstairs if you need anything. You can actually rest."
She nods, settling deeper into the pillows, and I watch her eyes start to drift closed. "Thank you, Richard. For everything."
I should say something appropriate. Something professional and distant. Instead I say, "Goodnight, Belle. Sweet dreams."
I make myself walk to the door, pull it closed behind me with a soft click. Make it three steps down the hallway before I have to stop and lean against the wall, breathing hard.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
My cock is achingly hard, pressed against my zipper in a way that's almost painful. I'm forty-five goddamn years old, successful enough to buy anything I want, experienced enough to have perfect control over my body's responses.
And yet here I am, hard as a fucking teenager from a conversation. From sitting in the same room as Belle, watching her smile, listening to her talk about art and dreams and the life Nathan stole from her.
