I move to her bookshelf, running my fingers along the spines. Poetry, art history, novels. I pull out a worn copy ofFrankenstein and open it, finding passages underlined in pencil, with notes in the margins in her handwriting.
I put the book back and move to her bedroom.
This is another line I can't uncross. I know it. But I open the door anyway.
Her bed is unmade, the sheets tangled from this morning. The sight of it makes me feel something primal and possessive. I can imagine that I see the impression of her body in the mattress, can picture her lying there, warm and still soft with sleep.
I can picture her the way I saw her the other night, back arched, hands working between her legs, pleasure coursing through her.
The door to the small bathroom is half-open. I push it wider and step inside.
It has an older, vintage look to it—green and white and black tile, a porcelain bowl sink that looks antique. The counter is organized but not obsessively so—a toothbrush in a ceramic holder, a hairbrush with a few dark strands caught in the bristles. I pick up the brush, running my thumb over those strands, and the intimacy of it sends a jolt through me. Pieces of her, finally touching my skin.
Succumbing to my curiosity, I open the medicine cabinet. There’s the usual things—ibuprofen, bandages, contact lens solution. Nothing particularly interesting or shocking. I close the cabinet and turn to the shower. Her shampoo and conditioner are on the built-in shelf—expensive brands with the scent of herbs and citrus. I open the shampoo and breathe it in, and suddenly I'm transported back to that moment in Boston when she stood close enough for me to smell her hair. This is what I smelled then. This exact scent.
There's a body wash too, and a separate bottle of lotion. I open each one, cataloging the scents, building a completepicture what she chooses to put on her skin. The lotion is vanilla and a burnt sugar scent that’s rich and warm. I imagine smoothing it over her skin, learning every inch of her body, making her smell like this and like me at the same time.
I leave the bathroom and move to her bedroom, but I don't go to the bed yet. Her closet is small, the door also slightly ajar, as if every part of this room is welcoming me into it. I open it fully and step inside the narrow space, surrounded by her clothes on all sides. I run my hands along the hanging clothes, feeling the different textures. She favors soft things—cotton, silk, cashmere. There's a leather jacket that looks worn and loved, and I pull it out, bringing it to my face. It smells like her perfume and the warmth of her skin, and I remember her wearing this at the museum. I imagine peeling it off her shoulders.
Most of her clothes are black. But there are splashes of color too—a red dress that would look stunning against her skin and raven-black hair, a blouse the color of a deep sapphire. At the bottom of the closet, I find her workout clothes in a small basket. Sports bras, leggings, tank tops. I pick up one of the tank tops and bring it to my face without thinking. The scent of her—sweat and that vanilla lotion—makes me hard in an instant, my cock aching as I breathe her in deeply.
I want to see her flushed and breathing hard. I want to be the reason she's breathless.
I sit on the edge of the bed first, testing. Then I lie back, my head on her pillow, breathing in the scent of her shampoo. The sheets are cool against my skin, but I can feel the ghost of her warmth, can imagine her beside me.
This is insane. I know this is insane.
I close my eyes anyway and let myself imagine it: Mara curled against my side, her head on my chest, her breathing slow and even. My hand in her hair. Her leg thrown over mine. The weight of her, the warmth of her, finally, finally within reach.
I've had more women than I can remember, certainly more than I can count. But I've never wanted any of them the way I want her. I’ve never before felt this consuming need to possess a woman, to protect her, to own her completely.
Everything is different with her.
I open my eyes and stare at her ceiling, and I wonder what she thinks about when she lies here. Whether she's ever imagined someone beside her.
Whether she's ever imagined me.
After several minutes, I get up and cross the room to her dresser, that shame curling in my gut and mingling with a building arousal as I touch the cool wood.
I open her drawers, starting from the bottom and working my way up, drawing out the moment where I find what I truly want to see.
The first one contains t-shirts, neatly folded. I run my hands over them, feeling the soft cotton, imagining her wearing them. The second drawer holds sweaters. The third, at the very top?—
The third holds her sleep clothes… and her underwear.
I should close it. I should walk away. But my hands are already moving, touching the fabric, learning her preferences. She likes simple things, mostly—the majority of her underwear are black and cotton, including the bras.
But there are a few other pieces, things that make my gut tighten and my blood heat both at the feeling of them in my hands and the thought of her wearing them for anyone else.
There’s a sheer bodysuit with boning and floral details on the lace. A burgundy negligee with a bow at the breasts and panels of lace. A corset-style bra with matching black silk panties.
I can imagine her in them—imagine being the one who gets to see her dressed in silk and lace, the one she chooses to wear them for.
I intend to be that person. I will be theonlyperson.
I close my fist around the panties, my heart beating hard. There’s a vintage perfume bottle on top of her dresser, and as I take the panties, I reach for it, squeezing the small pump and letting a mist of it spray out into the air. I suck in a deep breath, drawing the scent of her into my lungs.
I've tortured men without flinching. I've made decisions that affected hundreds of lives without hesitation. But standing here in Mara's bedroom, surrounded by the intimate details of her life, I feel unmoored. Desperate. Like I'm drowning.
