Page 65 of Vicious Temptation

I thought I would fall asleep quickly and easily, without the need to worry about how close I was to her, if I might roll over and touch her in the middle of the night and frighten her by accident. I thought that just the fact that my entire bed would be mine again would be enough to send me back into a deep, relaxed sleep. I thought I’d drop down in the middle, spread out, and be glad for my own space once again.

Instead, I lie awake for a long time, missing her. Agnes did laundry and changed the bedding today, and the sheets smell like powdery soap and starch, instead of the warm, soft scent of Bella’s skin. I hadn’t realized that I’d noticed much of anything at all about her at night—I’d been trying so hard not to—but now I know that I did. I noticed the way she always quickly slid beneath the covers, the way she wriggled a little before getting comfortable, the soft hum beneath her breath that she made just before drifting off.

Things that I shouldn’t have noticed. That I have no right to. Things that I shouldn’t think about at all, because it was only ever a temporary solution. I shouldn’t want Bella back in my bed, because that would mean she’s having the nightmares again. Her being safely ensconced in her own room means she’s okay.

That everything is as it should be.

But I still can’t sleep. I’m restless, agitated, half-hard, and I idly reach down and re-adjust myself, trying not to think about Bella in the gym earlier. I could jerk off and hope that relaxes me enough to sleep—but all I’ll do is imagine her while I come.

That’s not going to help matters at all.

Frustrated, I blow out a sharp breath, tossing the covers back and getting up. I drag on a pair of sweatpants over my boxer briefs, running a hand through my hair. Quietly, I walk out into the hall, trying not to make too much noise as I head downstairs.

I don’t even really know where I’m going. It’s been a long time since I’ve had the kind of insomnia that makes me prowl the house at night, but I find myself heading towards the kitchen. A glass of water and a late-night snack doesn’t sound bad. Agnes usually has fruit and cheese and things like that in the fridge—and I open it, peering in for something to eat. Something to do, really.

A light flickers on outside—one of the motion lights—and I freeze, halfway out of the fridge with a piece of cheese in my hand. Slowly, I close the door, walking to the large window at the far side of the kitchen with my pulse picking up in my throat.

Is someone outside?

I don’t keep night security at the house. I never have. I have excellent alarms, and I’ve never been threatened in a way that has ever made me feel that security is necessary. Gio is around during the day, but I certainly don’t expect him to work twenty-four hours.

And then I see a figure moving across the lawn.

I’m instantly on edge, thinking of the Bratva, of the possible threat to Bella—of the threat that I might have allowed to come near my family by bringing her here. I’ve been over it in my head a dozen times, every time coming to the conclusion that it’s not that dire, that I was still right to hire her, that she should stay. That I can’t in good conscience send her home now. But every one of my nerves is on high alert—until the moment that I see the figure approach the fence around the pool, and the motion lights there flicker on.

It’s a feminine figure. One I know very well, because I’ve thought about it more often than I’d like to admit.

Bella is out at the pool at midnight for some reason.

Taking a deep breath, I walk to the back door. I tell myself that I’m going to check on her because I’m worried about her safety. Because she’s admitted she sees a psychiatrist and that she has PTSD and panic attacks. I don’t know how her appointment went today, not really. I don’t know if she’s hit some low that she hasn’t told me about.

I tell myself that it has nothing to do with the possibility that everything is actually okay, and that Bella might be out at the pool at night, in a bathing suit.

But my pulse picks up again, beating hard in my throat just at the thought.

I cross the yard quietly, walking up to the outer fence around the pool. It takes me a moment to see where she’s standing—there’s only a few lights around the pool—but when I do, I feel like I can’t breathe for a moment.

Bella is sliding her sweatshirt over her head, tossing it on the lounge chair, and my cock instantly hardens at the sight of her in nothing but jeans and a bikini top. The black fabric is cupping her full breasts, lifting them, her chest and arms and flat, toned stomach bare, and I see the flex of muscle in her abdomen as she strips the shirt off. I wasn’t the least bit erect when I walked out here, but my cock is suddenly painfully stiff, tenting the front of my sweatpants.

Her hand goes to the button of her jeans, and I have to clench my teeth to stifle a groan.

She’s so fucking gorgeous. As beautiful as I imagined, and better. Her thick, chestnut hair is piled up on her head, leaving the curve of her smooth neck bare, down to the sharp line of her collarbones. When she pushes her jeans down her hips, revealing nothing but a scant bikini bottom underneath it, my cock throbs dangerously.

Her legs are long and muscled from her runs, and as she steps daintily out of the pile of denim, my hand flexes next to my side, itching to wrap around my aching cock. I’m not going to make it upstairs before I have to get myself off. I might not even make it back into the house. I haven’t been so painfully aroused in—god, I can’t remember ever having been this hard before. I feel dizzy with desire, and I want her so badly it hurts.

None of my fevered imaginings about what she might look like with so little clothing on could have come close to the reality of how utterly gorgeous she is.

It’s not until she steps away from the lounge chair, towards the water, that I remember what I’m doing.

I need to go back in the fucking house.

Guilt washes over me, because I’m doing exactly what Bella is afraid of. Standing and staring at her, watching her, when she’s defenseless and vulnerable. I have no idea what she’s doing out here at night in a bathing suit by the pool, but I have a faint guess, and if there’s anything to it, then the shittiest thing I could be doing is standing here gawking at her. Fantasizing about her.

Lusting over her.

My chest aches, the pain there warring with the throbbing pain in my cock, and all I can think is that I need to leave. I need to go back into the house. But I can’t stop staring at her.

She’s the most gorgeous thing I can ever remember seeing. A part of me thinks I’m dreaming, that none of this is real. That I can’t possibly be seeing what I’ve guiltily imagined so many times, and seeing that it outstrips the fantasy by a mile.