After a few minutes, she’s lightly snoring. I push her door open and move into her room. I close my eyes, inhaling the fragrance of her space.
“Fucking heaven,” I mutter.
When she finally does crash, nothing wakes her, so I don’t expect her to catch me while I’m here. Quietly, I walk to the bathroom and grab some of the cleansing wipes from the bathroom counter. I clean the cum from my hand and wipe off my cock, then discard the wipe in the small trash can in the corner. I push my shit back inside my pants, then zip them back up.
I haven’t come that hard in a long time. I should leave and get some rest, but then, if I do that, I won’t get to spend time with her, so instead of doing what I need to do, I walk back into her bedroom and focus on the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen–the only woman who makes this cold dead heart inside my chest beat.
Bathed in the moon’s gentle light, her small form appears ethereal. I’ve missed her. I’ve missed her presence. I wish I could kick off my shoes, slip into bed beside her, and wrap her in my arms, but I know I can’t. And wishing is for fools. This is as close as I will ever get to having her.
I slowly walk toward her bed as she sleeps curled up with one of her massive pillows. I wonder if she has so many pillows because she dislikes sleeping alone. She’s so beautiful, and my heart aches that I can’t be with her the way that I want to.
When I reach her bedside, I lightly brush my finger down her cheek, relishing in the smooth, silky texture of her skin against mine. She sighs, and her eyes flutter as she leans into my touch.
“Damn, how I wish things could be different, my Beauty,” I say low enough I don’t wake her.
Resigned to my fate of never being able to touch her in the way I desire or be with her in any way other than this, I walk tothe chair in front of her window. The same chair I use every time I get to spend time with her.
Peace engulfs me as I sit and watch her sleep, and I release a contented sigh. At this very moment, there’s no other place I rather be.
3
Florian
After I left Arabelle sleeping comfortably in her apartment, I decided that once I returned to New York, I would have a much-needed conversation with Samuel Foster. I’ve been at the theater waiting for him to arrive so we can get a few things straight. Now, I’m sitting in his office, which is the last room at the end of a long dark corridor nestled at the back of the theater, not too far from the dancers’ dressing rooms.
The seclusion will come in handy just in case the theater isn’t empty like I think it is. Alrick disagreed with me doing this right now once I contacted him to get eyes on Samuel until I returned. He argues that this wouldn’t be the best use of our time since Olan is gaining some momentum in his war against me. But I can’t see any other way around it. He’s putting not only every dancer who works at the theater in danger by letting handsy patrons accost them, but also Arabelle. And that’s something I cannot and will not let happen.
His cheap cologne mixed with the scent of even cheaper cigars lingers in the air, filling the small, cramped office. Sitting behind his small oak desk, the eerie glow of a desk lamp casting the only light in the dark room, I casually sip the scotch he hasstashed in his desk drawer. It might not be top-shelf scotch, but it’s better than nothing.
The family photographs he proudly displays on his desk capture my attention. He’s standing beside what I assume is his wife and two young daughters, the girls standing in front of them with huge smiles on their faces.
I’m not a family man. I don’t see myself having children in the future, but I am curious about the type of man who preys on women despite having a family. What kind of man would put women in such a vulnerable position, especially when he knows that his own wife and daughters could become prey for men with the same intentions?
Samuel needs to be taught a lesson he will never forget. I prefer that he doesn’t live because once a threat, always a threat, so we’ll just have to see how things progress before I decide which way this goes.
When I first met Arabelle, I couldn’t help but notice the fiery jealousy and anger burning in his eyes and resonating in his voice, especially when he caught sight of the vases full of flowers I gave her. Of course, neither had known the flowers were from me, but it showed his utter disdain for anyone who shows her any attention. I also couldn’t help but notice the deliberate distance she kept, as if trying to create a barrier between them while he persistently tried to invade her personal space. It pissed me off then, but I had to maintain my composure. At that time, I had been just a wealthy donor and a fan of hers. Now, it’s time he pays for his actions.
The doorknob rattles, and his hushed whispers echo through the wood panel door of his office. He’s not alone, but that won’t change the course of what I need to do.
When the door opens, Samuel steps in, tightly gripping the hand of a woman who looks like this is the last place she wants to be. She looks like she’s being forced to come in here with him.
She reminds me a lot of Arabelle, with beautiful ebony skin, a dancer’s body, and dark hair in a neat bun at the nape of her neck. At this point, I don’t think it’s a coincidence that he’s meeting up with someone who looks like her. With the appearance of this Arabelle lookalike, it means he’s fixated on Arabelle, which means I cannot let him live.
Neither have noticed me yet because I’m shrouded in darkness. He closes the door behind them, the sound of the lock clicking into place echoing through the room.
“I’m not sure about this,” the woman says.
Irritation crosses Samuel’s face. Either her refusal isn’t something he’s used to, or he’s pissed she’s not going along with whatever he has planned.
“I think I need to leave,” she continues.
She tries to pull her hand out of his grasp, but he grips it tighter.
“Arabelle, this is what you have to do if you want to dance at my theater. I want to see how well that mouth works, and if you’re unwilling, there’s the door. I can fill the spot with someone else tonight.”
“That’s not my name.”
When he finally lets her hand go, he walks to a long brown leather couch in front of a bookshelf, unbuttons his pants, pulls them down along with his briefs, and then sits on the down, palming his erection.
