Not to a ghost who refuses to stay buried.
And not to my own hesitation.
9
CALEB
Imade dinner for Basia, Coleman, and the nightshift Secret Service agent, Matty Wheeler. Basia relaxed with two glasses of white wine, laughing at more of Teddy’s wartime stories, most starring me.
In hindsight, I can see now why he insulted my intelligence. The man has been hyping me up to Basia like we’re in college and he’s decided that he’s my wingman.
I like Matilda, unfortunate name aside. Her brown hair and eyes, average height and stature, and plain clothes make her an excellent agent, completely blending in with whatever situation she puts herself into. I also had Kane look into her, and he found nothing suspicious. That goes a long way when it comes to earning my trust. Not that I’m any less alert with Coleman and Wheeler on the job too—I’m guarding Basia as completely as I did before they showed up.
Two hours later, Coleman escorts Wheeler down to the lobby on his way out, and I’m doing the dishes while Basia gets ready for bed. My mind’s going a hundred miles an hour, like a hamster on its wheel, spinning, spinning, spinning. And nomatter how much I run, my destination is always the same: Basia.
I place a coffee mug on the drying rack with a thud that feels too loud in the quiet apartment. I can’t handle this lack of control any longer. I tried. I fucking tried.
After making a cup of chamomile tea, I knock on Basia’s door. Poe rubs against my legs, expressing his delight over the peace that follows guests leaving, before high-tailing it into the living room, ready to reconquer it.
Basia’s sitting on her bed cross-legged, reading something on her phone.
“I made you some tea to help you sleep,” I tell her, nodding at the steaming cup in my hand.
The gentle smile that appears on her face makes me feel guilty, my heart squeezing in my chest.
“It’s like you’re reading my mind,” she sighs, then places her phone down on the mattress so she can make grabby fingers for the cup with both hands.
“Careful, it’s hot,” I warn, looking anywhere but at her eyes.
Basia blows on the surface before taking a small sip.
“Mmm, perfect,” she moans, making my balls jump. “Everything you do is just perfect.”
The tips of her ears are red with her admission, and it’s like she swept any doubt I had away with her delicate hands. She wants me too, I know she does. It doesn’t mean she’d have me—I’m still so far beneath her. But the desire is there.
I watch her slowly drink her tea while making idle conversation, then point to the hallway with my thumb.
“I’m going to hit the shower. Sleep well, Basia.”
“You too, Caleb,” she replies in a husky murmur. Her eyes are already starting to droop. Perfect timing.
I wash myself perfunctorily, ignoring the throbbing in my shaft, then walk out of the bathroom with just a towel wrapped around me—Basia will be sleeping deeply by now. Just in caseher dreams start to blur with reality, though, I rifle through my tactical gear for something that would offer some anonymity. I settle on a compact gas mask.
Perfect. I shouldn’t be kissing her anyway… shouldn’t get attached.
Like you’re not over your head already, Ward.
Not for the first time, I ignore the inner voice that tells me this is a terrible idea and enter Basia’s room as she sleeps.
She didn’t even get a chance to get under the covers, lying on top of them in pale pink pajamas with tiny red tulips printed all over.
I glance into the cup—empty. That’s my good girl.
Taking a deep, bracing breath, I move her so she’s fully on her back, then slide her pajama bottoms down. The little red bow on her white panties makes my cock tent the towel I’m wearing, coming dangerously close to unraveling the knot. I lean in and lower the mask so I can inhale the clean, soft scent coming from her covered pussy.
I throw a leg over both of hers, kneeling over her so I can admire her comfortably. Her labia are juicy and pronounced, sloping down to the smaller bump of her clit. I press my thumb against it, gradually applying more pressure until she sighs in her sleep, her thighs trying to squeeze together.
I don’t let them. I dream about a world in which she’d consent to me trying her legs open in a frog tie, surrendering herself to my mercy for hours of delicious sensual torture.
