Text from Callum:
Everything all right, sir? Motion sensors picked up activity in the guest wing around 11. Just checking in.
Of course he noticed.
Callum notices everything.
Former SAS, trained to see patterns, to identify threats, to monitor and assess and report with military precision.
I hired him specifically because he's thorough, because nothing escapes his attention, because he's loyal to a fault.
Right now I hate him for it.
I text back:
Everything's fine. Eden and I talked. That's all.
Talked. Sure. If you count giving her her first orgasm as talking.
His response comes quickly:
Understood. Security is clear for the night. I'll see you in the morning.
I set the phone down and pour another scotch.
The amber liquid glows in the lamplight, beautiful and poisonous.
Like everything in my life.
I sit there in the darkness, thinking about Eden and pleasure and the three days I'm going to have to survive before I can offer to touch her again.
Three days of watching her on cameras, seeing if she uses the vibrator alone, gauging whether curiosity wins over fear.
Three days of being patient when every instinct I have is screaming at me to go to her.
Three days that might actually kill me.
But I can do it.
Because the alternative—pushing too fast, scaring her, breaking the fragile trust we're building—that would destroy everything I'm working toward.
So, I'll wait.
And when the three days are up, I'll see if she asks.
If she wants more.
If she's ready to discover what else her body can do.
What else I can show her.
Two hours later, I'm still awake.
Still thinking about her.
Still hard despite taking myself in hand in the shower twenty minutes ago, my palm wrapped around my cock, hot water pounding on my shoulders while I thought about Eden'sface when she came, the sounds she made, the way her body responded despite all her fear.
I came hard, my forehead pressed against the cold tile, her name on my lips like a prayer or a curse.
