The comforter has slipped from her just enough that I see the green Christmas onesie she’s wearing. I nearly groan from how stupid it looks. She went back to her house the second Officer Jones gave her the green light, and the first thing she did was put on that fucking Christmas onesie with actual pom-poms on the tree? What is she, twelve?
It was funny though, how quickly she gathered the very few belongings she’d brought over to the hotel, and high-tailed it out of there. Most people would do anything to stay at the penthouse suite. And Ihadreserved it for a week. It cost me seventy grand, too.
But I guess she didn’t feel safe there. She was right to be scared.
She was wrong, though, to think she was safe here. She’s not safeanywhere.
I edge closer to the bed, the sight of her making my mouth water, regardless of her stupid onesie, or the glasses that are still perched awry on her nose, or the trail of drool dripping out of her mouth, or the book half-hiding her chest. She clearly fell asleep reading.
I sit down next to her, wincing as the mattress dips more than I’d expected, and she moans and shifts to her side. I take the book away gently, shut it, and put it on her bedside table. I pull off her glasses and place them on the table too. Then I wipe the little trail of drool with my finger, and taste it.
She still tastes so fucking good.
One of her hands is clamped over her pussy through the fabric of her onesie, and I know it’s not the book she’s reading that made her masturbate loudly in the house her parents just died in, while I was watching from the closet.
I don’t think anyone ever orgasmed from reading Agatha Christie.
“Naughty girl,” I breathe in her ear.
Now that she’s asleep, helpless and beautiful, I can’t seem to bring myself to call her a whore. I can pretend, just for an evening, that she’s just as worthy of my love as I thought she was back in senior year of high school.
She isn’t. She fucking isn’t. She ruined it all and destroyed my life.
But as long as I don’t hear her chirpy voice or see her green-blue eyes blinking at me from behind her stupid round glasses, I can pretend.
I drag a finger down the side of her face, then against her neck, feeling her pulse. It would take so little effort to stop it permanently, and today feels like the worst day of my life, because I’ve reached the conclusion that I’m incapable of it.
I hate myself, I really hate myself for what I do next.
Lowering myself over her, I brush my lips to hers.
At once, she moans, and I edge backward, my heart racing.
Fuck. Is she awake?
“Quill...” she moans. “Please... Quill...”
She’s dreaming. That’s what it is. Just a dream. But I’m only human, and I latch onto those words that tell me her body is aching for mine. Just like mine is aching for hers.
No matter how much we hate each other’s guts.
She’s twisting around in the bedsheets now, her fingers digging into the fabric keeping them from her crotch. She looks frantic, her mouth forming a desperate, silent plea, that I caneasily guess the meaning of.
But she’s sleeping.
I hesitate, my heart still beating hard. I have no qualms to shoot a man dead, but this is something else.
I may have fucked her with my gun, but only because I could tell she wanted it. I wouldn’t have gone so far if she hadn’t spoken the words that confirmed it.
Now, as I stare at her sleeping, I’m pretty sure she wants it too.
And yet...
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I force myself to resist my twisted temptation.
Instead, I stop at unzipping her onesie, my eyes taking in her creamy breasts, my breath hot on her stiff nipples. She moans and arches toward me, and I wonder if she’s dreaming of what happened earlier.
Is that what she orgasmed to?
