I move slowly towards her ‘not-dirty-enough-to-go-in-the-wash-maybe-I-can-wear-it-again’ clothing pile on a wooden chair by the window. My lips move into a smile under the balaclava I wear. I place the clothes on top of the dresser, before taking a seat. Then, my vigil starts.
The slow ebbing and flowing of her breaths is soothing. I might not be sleeping but it’s as good as a full eight-hours on a mattress. If only I could reach my fingers towards her.
Soon, I promise myself.
There’s no way I can resist any longer.
I’ll have to prove to her that the monster I am is worthy of her. But even if I weren’t, she’ll be stuck with me. She can condemn me to stay in the shadows once she learns of myidentity, but I’ll never leave her side. Good luck getting close to anyone but me, then.
At three thirty, she rouses, a small moan escaping her lips. My fists clench so hard not to react. She turns. Another moan. A light sheen of sweat coats my skin with the adrenaline pumping through me. If she wakes up, there’s no way to know what she will do. And I know for a fact she has a gun tucked under her pillow. I’ve seen her use it; she’s good.
I don’t have to agonise over ‘what ifs’ for long. Lucie straightens up in bed and taps her clock, a very soft glow like the first light of day illuminating the room. After so many hours in darkness, it’s almost too much. And fucking too little.
The covers pool around her waist. The light plays with the shadows and accentuates her large breasts and soft stomach clad in a large white shirt that’s falling off one of her shoulder. She’s breathtaking.
Her intake of breath has my cock straining against the zipper of my jeans.
“Am I dreaming?”
Her voice is sinful, breathy and rough with sleep, with a hint of desire. Or maybe I want her so much I’m projecting.
“Does it matter?”
My own voice is equally affected by the goddess in front of me. The mask around my face helps to hide who I am, but I can’t conceal how I speak, my slight accent. I decide to push my luck. “Did you think of me when you moaned in your sleep, baby?”
I tremble not to call her the Croatian nickname I chose for her. That would be a dead giveaway, and she isn’t ready to know who I am. Or maybe I’m not ready.
Lucie bites her lip, her chest heaving. Both nipples are hard and pressing against the fabric of her shirt, a beacon begging for my tongue. I lean forward, elbows on my thighs, trying to get a better view.
“Answer me.”
“Yes.” No hesitation. A shiver of pleasure moves up my body, the hair at my nape standing on end.
“Why don’t you show me what you were doing in your dreams?”
It’s a gamble, but I’ve learned one thing about Lucie Ventura. She would do anything to feel alive and be the centre of attention. Any attention, if it helps her be loved and cherished. Then, she’s not so sad any longer. I happen to want to give her anything she wants.
She flips the covers off, showing me the full expanse of her perfect legs. The light is too low to discern every divot, yet I drink her in. My eyes travel from her face, which I imagined is flushed with lust, to her perfect tits and belly, all the way to her legs that are begging to be bitten and have me between them.
I’ve never been with a woman like that. I made sure to never show interest in anyone, knowing full well my brother would torment them. I refused to condemn anyone to a premature death. My conscience couldn’t take it. And years passed. My conscience is long gone but no woman held my interest. Until her.
I’m a twenty-eight year-old man who’s never given a woman pleasure and taken it in return. When I look down between Lucie’s thighs, it’s been worth it.
“Aren’t you wearing panties, dirty girl?”
She swallows audibly. “I must have removed them in my sleep.”
“I wonder why,” I muse, a smirk painting my mouth though she can’t see it. “Why don’t you keep dreaming, baby?”
Her hands hesitate a second before she lifts the hem of the tee-shirt and removes it completely. My mouth waters as I take her in, fully naked and on display for me.
My jaw drops open slightly at the sight before me. Her body is a work of art. Every move she makes is graceful and decadent. The rolls on her stomach and the way her tits fall with gravity make me want to kneel and pray. I’m not a believer, but fuck if I don’t want to be when I have the honour of seeing her like this.
I wet my lips as I take her in. Slowly. She is meant to be savoured. She has a small script tattooed on her left rib. I can’t make out what it says with darkness and distance. Curiosity sings in my blood.
She props herself against the headboard and lets her hands wander, one caressing one nipple and grabbing her tit roughly, the other, descending straight to her clit. My nostrils flare.
She inhales sharply as she makes contact with her wetness. Fuck, I can hear how wet she is from where I sit and have to fight the urge to fall to my knees and devour her cunt.
