I creep closer to the bed as quietly as a fourteen-stone man can. Although, if the door crashing didn’t wake her, I’m not likely to either.
She’s thrashing around, pounding something imaginary on the sheets, wriggling closer to the edge of the bed. Any second now she’s going to slide off completely and hit the wooden floorboards.
‘Shh, Victoria, it’s okay.’ My smooth voice sounds way calmer than I feel.
She whimpers, but the thrashing begins to slow. The urge to comfort her is utterly compelling. I slip into the bed next to her, fingers lightly sweeping her thick, silky hair from her clammy forehead. I uncurl her fists with murmured reassurance that everything is okay. That I’ve got her.
But really, it’s she who’s got me.
By the heart and by the balls.
She turns in her sleep, the whimpers fading. Shimmying backwards, her back settles against my chest into the spoon position. Tucking my arm around her waist, my palm splays across her bare stomach where her cami top is hitched up.
I have no idea where her shorts are, but I’ll never complain they’re tiny again because compared to the lacy pants sculpting her lush peachy ass cheeks, they’re enormous.
The delicious scent of strawberry shampoo clings to the pillows.
Victoria’s breathing settles into a calm, even, peaceful rhythm. It’s over. She’s okay. I should get up. Go back to my own bed. I have no business being here while she sleeps, but I can’t seem to entice my legs to comply.
I might never get another chance to hold her like this. And seeing as I’m already here, why not just spend five more minutes to make sure the night terrors really are over.
Who am I kidding? Even one more minute here is purely for my own benefit, but being an insomniac has to have some benefits. I’ll creep out before she wakes. She won’t remember, and given her advances, I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t object, anyway.
It was me who stopped our liaison before it got out of control. Me, who’s supposed to know better.
My palm travels over her taut skin, revelling in the sensation of the swell of her hip beneath it. She might be young, but she is ALL woman.
She repositions her arm, resting her hand on top of mine with a soft sigh. ‘Archie.’ It’s little more than a whisper.
Her breathing pattern hasn’t changed. She’s still asleep. She’s thinking of me in her dreams. My heart swells in my chest and I rest my chin on the top of her head, nuzzling in closer.
‘I’m here, sweetheart. I’m here.’
Weak morning sunlightpeeps through the slatted blinds and, for the first time in years, I wake weighed with happiness.
Oh fuck.
That weight on my chest isn’t happiness, it’s Victoria.
I never sleep more than three hours. And drifting off pretty much always involves three meditations, two bloody sacrifices and a partridge in a pear tree.
Yet, last night, of all nights, had to be different. Fuck. My. Life.
And I’m not the only one awake. Blood furiously floods to my rock-solid dick, sheathed only by a thin layer of cotton boxer briefs. But is it any wonder, when her cheek is resting on my bare chest, her left leg slung across my waist, and those flimsy lace panties directly grazing my hip?
Shit.
Margaret Thatcher, Teresa May and Camilla Parker-Bowles naked and offering a threesome isn’t enough to quieten the steel-willed monster throbbing against Victoria’s inner thigh.
I glance guiltily around, looking for a way to extract myself, when Victoria’s cheek peels slowly from my chest. Heavy eyelids flutter open, confusion clouds her eyes, and she blinks hard.
‘Archie?’ Her voice is thick with sleep.
‘You were having a night terror.’ I shift beneath her in a really feeble attempt to move because, even though I know I should go, it’s the last thing I want to do.
Her thigh pushes down a fraction. It’s subtle, but she’s definitely trying to hold me in position.
She groans and winces in embarrassment. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve had them since I was a kid.’
