“Hey, Scott,” she whispers.
“Yeah?”
“Thank you.”
“Anytime.”
I stare at the dresser. Tiny, messy paintings detail the drawers from a very different season of her life. The world seems to fall away as her breathing becomes white noise, dragging me with it.
The last thought that filters through my mind is that maybe Ava didn’t imagine it after all. Maybe somethingwaswatching. Perhaps it still is.
SEVEN
AVA
Iwake to the steady sound of breathing and the weight of a strong arm draped over my waist. Warmth surrounds me, anchoring me in place.
Scott.
He must’ve wrapped himself around me, abandoning his spot on the edge of the mattress he desperately clung to last night. Now, I’m curled into the cradle of his body, his naked chest welded against my back. An impressive bulge presses firmly between my ass cheeks. I mentally scream at myself not to rub against it.
His soft breath blows evenly against the nape of my neck, sending a jolt of electricity down my curved spine. A large hand rests beneath the swell of my aching breast, my thin cotton cami rolled up, exposing my flesh. Calloused fingers splay wide, like he’s desperate to touch as much skin as he can, even in his sleep.
I don’t move at first.
For a few glorious moments, I let myself enjoy our tangled limbs. The protected feeling of being held in his muscular armssoothes something deep within. A safety I haven’t felt since I got here, and I like it too damn much.
But safety’s a fleeting illusion.
Being enveloped by his strength doesn’t stop the memories from last night from rushing back like a cold wave. The shock’s enough to steal my breath.
The dream. No, not just a dream. Another nightmare.The second since walking under this roof. First, it wassomeonehiding in the darkness, then that awful certainty thatsomethingwas outside the window, watching. Not trying to get in. Just watching.
Were they connected? Or was Scott right, and my brain was too enamored and distorted by the evening to let me get away with a restful sleep?
I shift slightly, quickly overheating now that I’m awake and all too aware of how my body’s reacting to him. I’m slick between my thighs, the thin cotton of my pajama shorts soaked through.
Scott grumbles in his sleep and pulls me closer, his arm tightening instinctively, those fingers grazing my breast, and sending a zing to my aching pussy.
I close my eyes, sighing, and let myself imagine that this is our normal. Like he always holds me as if I’m his to protect and keep safe, even when he’s dead to the world.
The old bed creaks as I slide free, and he exhales, turning onto his back, still out cold. The sheet’s at his waist. It helps display carved muscles and a dusting of dark hair across his chest. He might be in his late forties, but the man hasn’t let himself go.
My core throbs desperately for me to throw caution to the wind, crawl up the mattress, and slide his boxers free to see what he’s working with. Instead, I let an ounce of sanity breakthrough and lean down to grab clean clothes out of the dresser. Backing away quietly, I all but sprint my way to the bathroom.
Every floorboard under my bare feet is colder than the last, but it does nothing to chill the raging hormones racing through my nervous system.
The mirror reveals my lack of decent sleep last night. Dark circles park beneath my eyes, ready to alert the media. I peel off my clothes, turning the water as hot as the dial can go, and step into the small shower once the steam begins to bloom against the blue tile.
I let it scald the fear off my skin. Wash away the lingering doubts clawing at my consciousness.
I close my eyes and press my hands against the tiled wall, trying to breathe past the memory of the window and the sensation of being watched. My brain won’t stop fixating on the feeling that whatever it was, it’s waiting for me.
The water runs long past my showering needs, my mind too busy flipping through ridiculous scenarios. I miss the advantage of the solo moment to take care of the waning throb between my thighs.
By the time it dawns on me, the water’s turned too cold to bear. I shut it off, my fingers pruned, and the mirror fogged over. The lack of sleep steals my worries about doing anything to my hair or makeup. I pull on my cozy layers, wipe down the mirror, and leave the fan running to avoid a damp bathroom later.
In the kitchen, I move on autopilot. Coffee. Eggs. Pancakes made from a mix I found in one of the cupboards. Probably from Mr. I Come Prepared. I crack open the window and let the smell of snow drift in. Daylight paints everything with a fresh outlook. It’s almost beautiful.
