Page 81 of Keep Me

Her gaze moves downward and she watches with me as I move inside her. When she turns her attention upward to my eyes, I find a hint of something warm and affectionate on her face. Her fists grip my shirt and she drags my lips to hers.

She holds tight to my body as I fuck her, and I know in this moment I could never possibly tire of this. Her body would never feel anything but perfect to me.

Her teeth bite on my lower lip as I feel her body tighten and tremble with pleasure. I groan against the pain as I start to come, pounding three more times inside her. Filling her up gives me more satisfaction than I ever expected it to. It’s like I’m giving her something she can’t give back. Something she can’t refuse or fight. She takes every drop because deep down, she wants it too.

We pant against each other for a moment before I slowly ease out. When I see a drop of my seed dripping free, I quickly push it back in with my thumb. She never argues with that either.

Without a word, I pull her underwear and sweats back up. She presses her lips together as I set her back in the chair the way I found her. But now her hair is falling out of its bun, her shirt is crumpled, and her cheeks are flushed. And she’s wearing that postorgasm dazed expression.

“Writethatin your book,” I say as I press my lips to the top of her head.

I watch as she bites her bottom lip and fights a smile.

After tucking my cock back into my trousers and zipping them up, I leave the room and head toward the door to get back to work outside. I do so with a smile, knowing her scent is still on my skin and her ring is still on my finger.

Chapter Twenty-Six

“Supper is ready, Mr. Barclay,” Martha says from the kitchen as I close the door behind me. I somehow lost track of time and didn’t realize how long I had been out at the farm on the edge of the property. The groundskeeper lets me lend a hand during the planting season, and I can often get lost in time out there. With nothing but the earth under my fingers and the calming silence of the glen, I find it therapeutic.

“Thank you, Martha. Let me just get cleaned up then,” I say as I tear off my coat. “Have you seen Sylvie?”

“Still upstairs in the library,” she calls after me as I jog up the stairs. I don’t bother tiptoeing now. Although I probably should have because when I find her in the library, she’s no longer at the desk typing away. She’s in a restful sleep on the lounge while the fire crackles in the fireplace. The room is warm when I walk in, but as I rest a hand on her fingers, clenched at her chest, I find them cold.

Grabbing the blanket off the back of the sofa, I delicately drape it over her, tucking her in with care. She stirs slightly from my touch but drifts back off immediately.

As I stand up, I notice the typewriter still sitting on the desk.But instead of just a few pages strewn about the surface, there’s a thick stack now. Frowning, I cross the room and pick them up, reading the title at the top of the page.

Idle Hands.

Before I read any further, I turn back toward where Sylvie is sleeping. She hasn’t moved an inch since I laid the blanket over her.

It would be an invasion of privacy for me to read this, but also…this is a story directly from her mind. How could I possibly resist?

Gently sitting on the chair, I tell myself I’ll only read a few pages. But those first few pages fly by, and soon I’m five chapters in. It’s messy and poetic, much like she is. The story doesn’t resemble ours, and to my initial disappointment, the main character is not a mean Scottish drunk who lives alone in an old house.

But by chapter ten, I realize that’s a very good thing because the man in this story is god-awful. He is a famous musician who is loved by many, but behind closed doors, it’s revealed that the woman secretly writes his music for him. Regardless of that, he constantly dismisses her, never gives her credit, and makes her believe that she’s worthless.

With every page I turn, I grow more and more frustrated, at some points worrying thatI’mthe arsehole male character who treats her like she doesn’t matter. Is this how Sylvie sees me?

Do I dismiss her? Make her feel unwanted and worthless?

There’s a scene when another man flirts with her right in front of the boyfriend who doesnothing. Even when Sylvie meant nothing to me, I couldn’t bear the sight of her with my friend.

Another hour goes by while I read, and my anxiety is never settled because the story is only half finished. And the heroine still hasn’t left that arsehole of a musician.

Setting the unfinished book on the table, I turn toward Sylvie, who is still sleeping peacefully. How could anyone let someone so perfect and brilliant feel worthless? Was it her idiot ex-boyfriend? Or her parents, who she has such a volatile relationship with?

Why won’t she just give me the chance to make up for everything they lack?

Staring at her now, I notice that her cheeks are redder than they were before although the fire has died and the room has grown cooler.

Standing up from my chair, I walk quickly toward her and rest my hand against her cheek. I’m instantly filled with dread as I realize how hot she is. It takes only a split second for me to feel incredibly useless and panicked.

I rush to the door, yelling over the banister, “Martha! Quick to the library!”

There’s a frantic pounding of feet against the floor as our housekeeper and cook run up the stairs to see why I’m so desperate.

“What is it?” she asks when she reaches the second floor, panting and breathless.

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