Page 107 of Haunted Spurs

I keep my eyes closed, my legs like jelly, my body still quivering with tiny aftershocks. I feel the wetness of the sheets beneath me, the tangible proof of how I literally lost my mind for this man.

Slowly, Ron lifts his head from the crook of my neck, propping himself up on his elbows. He looks at me. His hair is plastered to his forehead and his eyes are still clouded by the fog of pleasure, but incredibly clear and attentive.

He lowers his gaze to where our bodies are joined, observing the liquid disaster I just made.

A slow, tired, infinitely proud smile spreads across his face.

His gaze travels back up as he traces the outline of the red brand stamped on my hip with his thumb, now smeared by our sweat and my slickness.

"Holy Christ, Selene..." he whispers, his voice thick with raw adoration, softly kissing my sweaty temple as his breath ruffles my hair. "Absolutely, fucking perfect."

Later, I'm the one clinging to him in the night. And he doesn't let go.

He holds me tight against him.

He strokes my hair.

He whispers the sweetest things to me.

31

Slow, Particularly Pleasant Mornings

Ron

"It's weird seeing you on your laptop."

Her sleep-heavy voice cuts through the quiet silence of the bedroom.

I look up from the glowing screen of my laptop and... Selene is a vision. A fucking vision.

I love her sleepy morning bedhead look. Her raven hair is a delicious tangle falling past her shoulders, her cheeks are still warm from sleep, and her dark eyes are struggling to adjust to the sunlight filtering through the parted curtains. And then, I absolutely love her little pajama. She has a collection that drives me crazy, but today's is objectively fantastic: a pair of black cotton shorts and a soft, white t-shirt with a print of two skeleton hands placed exactly... right over her boobs.

I frown, staring at the print. Now that I think about it, those bony fingers annoy me for absolutely no rational reason. I'm fucking jealous of those skeleton hands. Maybe I'll have to take her shirt off very, very fast to rectify this offense.

"I'm editing some footage," I answer her.

She rubs an eye with the back of her hand and, curious, steps closer to me, leaning over my shoulder.

"What footage?" she asks, peeking at the screen where clips of the estate are playing.

I love these moments of normalcy between us. The morning calm, our breaths close together, the total absence of cameras or challenges.

And... suddenly, as I feel her lean lightly against my shoulder, I have another one of those terrifying thoughts.

I think about my future.

It's something I usually don't allow myself to do. I learned to manage my life, ever since I was a kid, strictly living only in the present. It was much easier that way: no mental projections, no expectations of an adoption that never came, no expectations about friends going their own way, no overly permanent bonds that could break and leave me shattered.

But now... the thought that violently carves out space in my heart is a clear, devastating image.

I see myself in a few years.

In this house.

With Ollie.

With a raven-haired woman.