Page 58 of Obsessed Heir

Considering her fragile condition, I won’t try prying her off me.

There’s only one thing I can think of that might break through her panic. “Let me close the door,” I say by her ear, keeping my voice low and soothing. “Then we’ll go check on…Miss Opal.”

I stop myself from saying “Mother” at the last second. The last thing she needs is to be reminded I’m the one holding her.

At my mother’s name, Abigail nods jerkily, loosening her grip on me, but not by much. “I’m sorry,” she says, so low I struggle to make out the words.

I was right to use her name. Whatever else Abigail may be, this shows she cares deeply about my mother’s well-being. I’ll give her that much.

“Keep your eye out for Holly,” I instruct, pointing to the hallway entrance while using the same soothing tone one would use with a frightened child. “She should be back any second.”

Obediently, she keeps her eyes trained on the doorway, careful to avoid even a glance toward the open balcony door.

I take a cautious step back, but when I try to take another, her hold tightens again. I stretch out my arm, but the door handle is still several inches past my fingertips. There’s no way for me to reach it without moving closer. I can’t pick her up and move toward the water. I’m liable to cause her a breakdown.

Trying a different tactic, I put my foot between hers so I can lean forward. Moving my hand to the middle of her back, I put her into a dip. It’s enough to allow me the extra few inches I need. After a couple of seconds of fumbling, I finally grasp the handle and drag the sliding door shut.

My only concern was over Abigail’s emotional state and not the intimate position I’ve inadvertently maneuvered us into. By the time I have the latch snapping shut, she’s practically riding my thigh.

Her shocked little gasp catches my attention. Is she okay? Concerned, I check on her. Abigail is looking up at me with guarded eyes, blinking away tears as I hit the button to close the curtains.

I could take my finger off the button.

I could straighten and set her on her own two feet.

I could break eye contact.

I don’t.

Abigail is lucid enough to realize my cock has grown rock-hard, pressing insistently against her body. The awareness that sparks in her eyes is as much a surprise to her as it is to me.

It’s not unheard of to go from “I hate you” to “I want to fuck you” in the blink of an eye. I just didn’t expect it to happen to me, especially not with her.

What’s more intriguing is that Abigail makes no move to pull away, either. Her pussy is pressed against my thigh, and that flimsy excuse for underwear is more for show than any actual coverage. The outfit she’s wearing is hardly any better.

The low buzzing stops as the curtain closes. So now what happens? I bring her upright again, balancing her weight so she can stand on her own.

She hasn’t stepped away, even when I set my hand to ride low on her waist.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Abigail

I’ve had a nightmare about drowning ever since I can remember. In it, I lose my footing and the water rushes over my head. Something unseen drags me into the murky depths, and I reach out, trying to grasp onto anything within reach. Terrified, I open my mouth to scream, but water rushes in, choking me.

The smooth slide of the glass door gliding across the rail brings me out of the whirlpool of fear. Familiar sounds fill my mind, too muted to make them out at first. They gradually return me to the real world, leaving me surrounded by a bubble of safety and tranquility.

I don’t know if this sense of peace is solely because of the quiet. Barron has me cradled in his powerful arms. His hand is splayed between my shoulder blades as he reaches the other arm toward the door.

I’m clutching at his sides, like a frightened child. That’s not too far from reality. I can’t quite believe he’s the one holding me, making me feel safe and protected.

But it’s more than that. My breasts are flattened against the solid wall of his torso. And my inner thighs are suddenly sensitive where his muscular leg is wedged between them.

I pull my cheek away from his shirt, staring at the smudge of makeup I’ve left behind. Swallowing hard, I follow the navy tie, past the knot at his neck, to the neatly cropped beard covering his jaw.

It’s an unusual situation where I can study him up close like this while his attention isn’t on me. As if he hears my thoughts, he glances down, catching me watching him.

My fingers tighten reflexively against the expensive suit. I wait, holding my breath. But the same way I’m boldly studying his rugged features, he’s studying me with an intensity that makes me feel left stripped bare.

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