Page 64 of Damsel in Disguise

Let her hear me.

Let her understand exactly what her presence does to me.

My free hand braces against the wall, palm flat against cool tile as the pressure crests. My head drops forward, breath punching out of me, and I come undone.

White streaks spatter against the wall. It’s stark and obscene before the shower water dilutes them, and washes them away as if it never happened.

My hand slows into long, languid strokes, milking out the last pulse, squeezing every final drop until my breathing evens out.

It’s been a long time since I came this hard.

Sex with the Synthète does make me climax at times—her body is designed for efficiency, responsive in ways most biological women aren’t. I won’t deny the superior mechanics. But mechanics alone aren’t hunger.

You can refine sensation.

You can program responsiveness.

You can simulate warmth and mimic desire.

But you can never replicate humanity.

And no matter how perfectly she’s constructed, Delilah will never replace the heat of a real woman watching me from the dark.

I feel her presence in every step I take—from the moment I shut off the shower to the slow drag of the towel I wrap low around my waist.

That awareness clings to me like a second skin. The only thing separating us is the thin veil of light spilling across the room. But I don’t attempt to dilute the thrill yet.

The closer I get to stepping out of the bathroom, the further she retreats into the dark.

However, one thing is for certain—Ariella isn’t running from me but pacing me, maintaining a steady distance between us.

By the time I push the door open with another towel draped loosely over my neck, the room has shifted around her absence. Or rather her concealment.

A faint flutter catches my attention near the curtains the moment I click the door shut behind me.

I pause. A chuckle slips past my lips.

She might’ve considered the window to escape.

I bet on any number she’s still here—pressed into the shadows just behind the fabric, watching, waiting. Testing how far she can exist in my space without being dragged into the light.

“Honey, I made you some pancakes,” Delilah chirps, her voice cutting cleanly through the tension.

I still had the towel in my hand, pausing mid-motion to dry my hair.

My gaze shifts to her, watching her step into the bedroom.

She stands composed as ever, holding a plate stacked high—caramel syrup glistening under the light, it looks indulgent, dripping down the edges of freshly baked pancakes.

They do look delicious.

But I have something far more interesting in mind. Let’s put on a show for my audience.

In unhurried steps, my feet move towards her, watching the way her eyes track me, the subtle shift in her posture, the faint swallow of anticipation.

Golden eyes darken with something close to hunger the more I close the distance between us.

Her breath stutters just slightly when my hand lifts. I reach for the plate to grab one.