Page 68 of Damsel in Disguise

I stop right beside him, painfully aware that his wife lies just inches away. The risk only intensifies something dark and electric inside me.

My eyes trace him. His body is tensed and all guards up.

Even sleeping, Alistair doesn’t look peaceful. It almost seems like he’s fighting the demons that dare to haunt him in his dreams.

The rational part in me is contemplating not taking a risk and leaving. But the irrational part urges me to stay and keep going.

After all, no risk, no gain.

He’s on his back, a blanket carelessly draped over his lower half, leaving the rest of him exposed. His broad chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm. Defined abs catching the faint streetlights. Strong arms relaxed, veins visible beneath the skin.

Seeing him from a distance, while I was half-hidden in shadows before, is nothing compared to this.

Up close, it’s more dangerous.

I want to see him like this in daylight. No shadows. No barriers. No distance. Just us.

My teeth sink lightly into my bottom lip at the thought.

I want to bite into those muscles. Taste them. See if they’re as hard as they look.

My body moves before I can fully think it through. I remove my gloves on autopilot. Next, my knees sink to the floor beside the bed, the carpet soft beneath them.

My hands lift, hovering for a fraction of a second before settling against his chest. Fingers spread slowly, palms flattening on his skin, feeling the steady heat of his body.

I drag my nails lightly, tracing from his shoulders down to his chest, then lower… over the ridges of his abs, mapping him in silence.

And then the thought hits—he had his dick inside her. My touch pauses for just a second. The image crashes back, twisting the color of envy deep in my stomach.

Alistair needs to be cleaned.

Suddenly, I’m pulling the blanket up, shifting into that seated position—on my knees beside him, drawing the fabric over myself, covering as much of myself as I can.

Darkness swallows everything, turning the anticipation into thrilling addiction.

I can’t see a thing, not even my own hands. All I have is the awareness of him—his lower abdomen, so close to my face I can practically smell the bodywash.

If drugs can get you high, then I’m definitely reaching nirvana just by smelling him.

Carefully, I fumble for the waistband, fingers brushing past it and inside the sweatpants, cautious enough not to accidentally wake him up.

My hand touches around him there. He’s soft—warm, heavy, but not yet fully awake to me. The moment I wrap his shaft and pull it out, Alistair lets out a low, unguarded groan.

Instinct snaps through me, making me freeze.

My breath catches, muscles locking while I wait—counting seconds, listening for any shift that might mean he’s stirring up.

Nothing.

Just the slow rhythm of sleepy breath.

I lift my hand to lick my palms, the wetness cooling briefly before it turns slick and purposeful. My wet fingers encircle him once more.

To my utter surprise, I feel him hardening, thickening in my palms, responding without consciousness.

I swallow a lump without stopping my hand, gliding it along his length in slow, languid strokes—steady and patient, coaxing, guiding, shifting between clockwise and anticlockwise, applying the right pressure.

Feeling him come alive like this—because of me, without even knowing it—does something twisted and possessive inside my chest.