Page 33 of A Love So Deadly
“Doesn’t matter,” she says. “I just have a bad feeling about this one.”
“Noted.”
Vittoria walks out, and a second later, the elevator dings as it arrives for her.
My gaze returns to the screen, and when Vittoria’s warning flickers in my mind again, I press the button to shut it off.
Instincts shouldn’t be ignored. It’s what has kept our kind alive for centuries. Vittoria is probably right. I should just fire the girl and forgot her meager existence ever crossed mine. It should be easy.
But…
I pull out my phone and press the app that allows me to view the cameras. When I see Elliot’s form pop onto the screen again, something inside me clenches tight. I had left one of the outfits I got for her on my desk.
Panties, bra, shoes, suit.
It’s an invasion, I’m aware, but that’s a human thing. Because Vittoria’s right—I have marked her. I thought it was subtler than it is, but marking her is a way to keep her untouched. A way to make sure she remains mine.
A frown flits across her face as she looks at the handwritten card on top of the clothes. She crumples it before second guessing it, smoothing it out, and tucking it away in a pocket of her skirt.
Next, she picks up the bundle of clothes and stomps into the big bathroom connected to my office.
Not wise on her part. The floor’s public bathroom is clean of cameras, but mine is wired.
My heart starts to thump hard as I choose the next camera and see her inside. She slams the door shut, turns the lock, and then goes to start the shower.
Monty strips down and although the feed is in black and white, I can imagine the pinkish hue to her skin, her cheeks. Her tits are so soft, round, and tightly nippled, and her pussy glistens with dampness.
Thighs, too.
Fuck, a human woman aroused is a glorious thing. All that blood flushing her skin, running hot against the surface.
She gets into the shower and picks up the soap, rubbing it on her hands. She doesn’t touch the washcloth, though, probably thinking it’s mine. Then she washes herself, face and body, her fingers working her breasts, pulling at her nipples like she knows I’m watching.
How could she?
But a thrill shudders through me at the thought of her knowing and giving me this private show.
Something seems to grab her, and she tips her head up, mouth open as the water cascades over her. Her hand moves slow over stomach, fingers sliding between her folds of her cunt.
My fangs come down, and I stroke a hand over my cock that’s straining against my pants.
Fuck, she’s a work of art I want to devour.
She turns off the shower, her hair damp, but not washed. Does it smell like her, like a sunny day, fragrant with flowers, I wonder. Just the thought of it has the phantom scent tickling my nose.
Frowning, she takes the towel, but quickly puts it back and searches for another.
I don’t even think of turning away as she dries herself, letting the towel move over her, back, breasts, between her thighs, arms, legs, feet. There’s something hotly erotic in her movements. There’s no performance. It’s more like she’s dreaming, eyes shut, like she’s thinking of something.
Someone.
Elliot drops the towel, and her hand slips down between her legs to stroke herself there, one finger coming up to draw wet circles on her exposed clit. Her breasts rise and fall, and she bites her lip, stroking herself and shuddering.
Am I about to witness her make herself orgasm?
I pull at my hard cock, imagining it’s me in her thoughts, but after another torturous moment, she shakes her head like she’s shaking the spell away and moves her hand away.
She finally dresses, and I admit I watch every moment. I don’t know why but there’s an erotic edge to the way she slides on her panties and clips on her bra, the clasp at the front, between the flesh filled lace cups. She pulls on the shirt, buttoning it, and then reaches for the narrow legged black suit pants and puts them on.
