Page 28 of Unbind

She just cares that there’s a beautifully sexy, sleeping man right here with a dick that, from the looks of things, could make every problem in life fade into insignificance.

It doesn’t help that, in sleep, he looks like a fallen angel, his dark curls just mussed enough to invite my fingers to rake through them, repose softening his face. He doesn’t scare me, I realise. Not when he’s like this, looking as innocent as the day he was born. If I’m being completely honest, he hasn’t scared me at all since I came around from my hypo to the sight of his tear-stained cheeks.

He’s been on my bed for God knows how long—hours, possibly—and he’s watched me sleep. I may be mortified by that thought, but I’m not scared by it. I don’t feel vulnerable.

Just curious… and aroused.

Very, very aroused.

My nipples are tight little furls. I brush my arm over one of them, and the ache has me biting down on my lip. The silk of my pyjamas feels so sensual against my skin. It’s a caress I could do without.

I need to get a fucking grip. And, ideally, more sleep. And I definitely need to get rid ofhim.

I cast my eye over him. If his dick wasn’t such a distraction, I’d obsess over the sliver of tanned, lean stomach that’s on display courtesy of his t-shirt, which has ridden up. I’d try to read the basic-looking tattoo on his bicep. All I can see is a capital E. I wonder if it’s prison ink. It looks like it. I can’t square the considerate man lying here amidst his splendour, onmybed, with the thug who disfigured my brother and served time.

I also can’t square my hatred of him with the pang I feel when I think about him locked up behind bars. Nope. Definitely not goingthere.

My gaze wanders over the fine sight his taut forearm makes and onto the duvet cover. There, lying next to him is a small pile of stuff. Whatisit? I crane my head up gingerly without moving my body.

Oh my God. It’s a motherfucking test kit. There are a couple of lancets for pricking my fingers, and I spot a tube of what looks like an unfamiliar brand of glycogel.

It seems our resident heartless thug has been keeping a bedside vigil, primed to test me if he suspects my glucose of plummeting in the night.

It’s overbearing, definitely. And unnecessary. And borderline invasive—or outright invasive, even. But it’s also comforting to know he had my back, and it’s even a little sweet, I suppose.

His fingers have beeninside my mouthtoday, and now his dick is pointing north on my bed.

He needs to get out of here before I do something I regret.

Like climb on it.

Or kick him off the bed.

Not sure which.

I do the only thing I can feasibly do, which is to wake him without alerting him tomybeing awake. I roll over heavily, noisily, faking a loud, sleepy sigh and tugging the duvet with me as I go. And then I lie curled up on my side, vagina throbbing and heart hammering and eyes screwed shut, and I wait.

His breathing changes. The bed shifts, and I imagine him sitting up beside me. Realising he’s been asleep. There’sthe faint sound of him gathering up the paraphernalia he brought with him, a quiet curse that makes me press my lips together in amusement while I keep my breathing audibly even. I wonder if that’s him registering his boner.

Then he’s climbing off the bed.

The door clicks softly shut behind him.

16

NATALIE

It’s a testament to the outrageous comfort level of the bed that I found sleep again after Adam and his dick left the premises, but I did. Waking up and getting ready in my room felt almost as if I’d treated myself to a spontaneous overnight stay in a luxury hotel.

I spent way too long letting the shower’s epic water pressure pummel me as I washed my hair in a leisurely fashion. While under the spray, I may or may not have allowed myself to speculate idly as to whether that boner of his went down by itself, or whether he had to tend to it in that impatient, commanding way of his. Then I dressed and made good use of the Dyson hair dryer and Air Wrap I found in the bathroom cupboard. Again: fancy hotel.

Of all the life decisions I’ve made in the past twenty-four hours, putting my makeup bag in my tote bag was one of the best. Sometimes I just leave it at the studio. I turned up here last night looking half dead, and something has me wanting to look far better than that this morning. It’s this house, I decide. If I was staying at the Ritz, I wouldn’t mooch downstairs looking full emo. I’d make an effort.

God knows, I spend most of my days working hard and unglamorously in a very glamorous industry. I constantly bemoan feeling like I’m some poor little church mouse on the edge of all the fun. This place isn’t the Ritz, but it may as well be, and I may as well channel it before I have to leave the bubble and reenter normal life.

The thought is almost enough to take the wind out of my sails. It’s dark outside, but I opened my blinds as soon as I woke up. I suspected we weren’t overlooked on this vast plot of land. Sure enough, all I could see was the beautiful, barren stillness of Adam’s gardens in the moonlight.

How it’s possible, in a city of nine million people, to feel so utterly, blissfully, cocooned, I’m not sure. But I’m sure this splendid isolation was worth every penny.

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