Page 60 of Fractured Devotion
I don’t answer immediately. I let him wait. He should know by now that pressure doesn’t move me. It only sharpens my focus.
Another buzz:You’re behind. I want a full transfer of Trial 14 records by week’s end. Get closer to her. Whatever it takes.
My lip curls. I already am closer. Just not the way he means.
I draft the reply without sending it. It says:She’s already mine.
Then, I delete it. It’s too early. Too raw.
Instead, I type out something sterile:Progress is steady. She trusts me. Soon.
I hit send and lock the screen.
Back to Celeste.
She’s stirring now. She’s rubbing her eyes and muttering something under her breath that I can’t catch. She stands, stretches, and moves toward the kitchen. I track every shift of her body—the arch of her back, the way she pads barefoot across the tile.
My hand tightens around the tablet.
Soon, she’ll be at work. And I’ll see her again, face to face.
But not as this.
Not as the man watching.
It’ll be as the man she thinks she’s beginning to trust.
The shape of control is subtle, but once it takes hold, it doesn’t let go.
Not until you’re all the way inside it.
And by then, you don’t even want to escape.
Not really.
By noon, the shift in her routine starts. She stretches off the couch, her movements slower than usual, like her body is still shaking off the weight of last night. The blanket drops at her feet. She walks into the bedroom, and I switch feeds, anticipation burning hot beneath my skin.
She doesn’t close the door. She never does.
The camera gives me a clean shot of her peeling the oversized shirt over her head and revealing skin that doesn’t just live in my dreams anymore. It owns me now.
Her breasts bounce softly as the shirt lifts away, and the way her spine curves when she stretches with her hips cocked to one side nearly knocks the breath from my lungs. My cock twitches in response, hardening instantly.
She kicks off her shorts next, her bare legs flexing with every shift. She lingers at the drawer, and I almost groan out loud when she bends forward with her ass high, completely unaware. Or maybe she knows.
Maybe she wants to torture me. The black lace she picks is delicate and minimal, her nipples already tight from the change in temperature as she slips the bra on. Fuck.
She steps into those slim black slacks, tugging them up her thighs like she’s doing it for me alone, then smooths them over her hips, zipping and buttoning with the elegance of a goddamn performer.
The blouse she pulls on is light, sheer, and unforgiving. Her breasts press against it, her cleavage visible for half a second before she buttons it up, too slowly, like she’s teasing. Like she knows I’m watching.
I watch her pull on a soft coat, one hand brushing her hair into a low twist. Every move is elegant, unhurried, and unaware.
When she finally steps back into the living room and grabs her bag, she pauses and looks around like she forgot something. Then, with one last glance out the window, she heads for the door.
I switch to the hallway feed.
The door opens. She steps out, her shoulders squared, jaw tight.
