For some dumb reason, I glance over my shoulder before touching the comforter. First the tiptoes and now this? Do Ithink Reed was fibbing about going to work so he could catch me snooping? Absurd.
My palm caresses the comforter, heading toward the top where the sheets are folded over like they do in hotels. Oh,wow. They’re even more decadent than they look. Quite possibly the silkiest fabric ever to graze my skin.
Who knew Reed had such good taste in linens? An hour ago, if I had to guess what type of bedding he had, I’d have confidently said utilitarian, over-starched cotton sheets with a scratchy comforter. Probably in beige. I would have never guessed he’d have this indulgent fifty-thousand thread count masterpiece that could bring a tear to Martha Stewart’s eye.
Not bothering to attempt resistingthistemptation, I lower my rump to the bed. And then a little bounce to test out the durability of the springs.
Dang.
This mattress cradles my tush like a lover's caress. Too bad Reed’s at work instead of ravaging me on it.
Truth be told, I don’t think I even need him to achieve orgasm. The mere idea of rolling around naked in these sheets might do the trick. My nipples stiffen like I’ve walked into a cooler without a bra.
I’ve lost it.
My recent stress and today’s big news have clearly taken their toll on me.
Blinking free of the linen-induced horniness, I creep toward his closet. Nobody could fault me for having a quick look-see. After all, it’s important to know your surroundings.
The closet is more of Reed’s retentiveness on full display. An array of suits, arranged by color. Beside it, casual clothing is grouped in an almost obnoxious level of organization that makes my brain hurt.
I assumed FBI agents led busy lives. However,thisagent clearly has too much time on his hands if he can be this meticulous about this.
As horny as the bed made me, this closet is making me as dry as the Sahara.
Time to move on. I should check out his book collection. Reed’s an intelligent man; I wonder what he reads.
Heh heh. Reed reads.
I crack myself up, which is coming in handy right now since I’ve never been good at being alone.
When I walk into his office, my first impression is that there’s a different vibe in here. There’s something inherently cozy about this space. It’s less barren and has more character. I could see myself spending hours in here.
The walls are painted in a rich burgundy and adorned by various art pieces, all with a nature theme that warms my soul.
There’s a velvet forest-green chaise lounge in the corner with a plush throw blanket draped over it. A tall lamp with a brass finish is perched behind the chaise. I bet it gives the perfect amount of light for long hours engrossed in a novel.
Once I pick a book, that’s where I’ll be until Reed gets home.
A fancy wooden rolltop desk stands against the far wall. Four built-in drawers stretch to the floor on each side of the desk. Ornate drawer hardware catches my eye, beckoning me over.
I let my hands skim across the desk’s polished wood, noting the intricate carvings. It’s even more impressive up close. I would have pegged Reed for something more contemporary than an antique like this. Again, he’s full of surprises.
His bedroom and office are strikingly divergent. Almost as if two different men decorated them. One who is soft and in touch with his feelings, and the other is far colder or shut off.
While I’m fiddling with the metal knob at the base of the desk’s curved cove, nostalgia cascades over me. The memorieslap at my mind in gentle waves, and my lips rise into an easy smile.
Our aunt had a desk like this. Not the same one, but it was similar. She kept all her birding journals, guides, and books inside it. I recall rolling the slats to open the desk, then lowering it again. The sound of the cover clicking along the track was captivating to my little ears. Over and over, up and down, I rolled the top like it was the most entertaining thing in the world.
My aunt used a lemon-scented polish on the desk. I inhale as if I could smell it now. And I almost do.
Pleasant memories of my childhood dance in my mind’s eye. It was a time before it all went horribly wrong. I was a happy, carefree child. Loved. Whole.
Like always, Zara was beside me, beaming at me with radiance only she’s ever possessed. The two of us spoke a language nobody else understood. We didn’t even need words most of the time.
She was effervescent, drawing everyone to her. I was the steady one, calm and reserved. Not Zara, though. To this day, I’ve never met anyone as bubbly and filled with joy as her. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she knew her life would be cut short. So she spent every second happy and bright, never wasting a breath on melancholy.
Zara was the sunshine that I wasn’t. When she died, I tried to be more like her. At first, it was to feel closer to her. Then I hoped it would please my parents. Or make them miss her less.
