Page 22 of Spooked
After the workshop, I brought her to my bedroom. She'd pulled me eagerly to the bed, and we'd made love again. Slower this time, learning each other's bodies with caressing hands and hungry mouths. She'd worshipped my scars with her lips and tongue until I nearly wept with need.
This is how it begins…the unraveling…the freefall.
She stirs, stretching like a contented cat before her eyes flutter open. For one heart-stopping moment, I fear I'll see regret dawn in those big brown eyes.
Instead, she smiles—a sleepy, intimate curve of her lips that makes my chest ache.
"Good morning," she murmurs, voice husky.
"Morning." I can't help but touch her, tracing my fingertips along her bare shoulder. "Sleep well?"
"Mmm, eventually." Her smile turns wicked as she presses closer. "Someone kept me up half the night."
I chuckle. "Are you complaining?"
"Nope." She props herself up on one elbow, studying my face. I realize with a jolt that I'm not wearing my mask…haven't worn it since she found me in the workshop. "How are you feeling?"
How am I feeling? Terrified. Exhilarated. Vulnerable in ways that have nothing to do with my physical scars.
"I'm feeling..." I search for the right words. "Like I've stepped off a cliff and I'm waiting to see if I'll fly or crash."
She nods, understanding in her eyes. "Me too."
Once again, her honesty disarms me, as it has from the beginning. This woman doesn't play games or hide behind social niceties. She sees, and she speaks her mind.
"Rain’s stopped and the sun’s finally out. We should get some photos," I say abruptly.
Her eyebrows rise. "You’re ready?"
"It's why you're here." I sit up, the sheet pooling around my waist. "Professionally speaking."
She studies me.
"I trust you," I add, surprising myself with the truth of it.
She smiles, then nods. Her hand slides over my scarred shoulder. “You know you don’t have to prove anything to me, Wolfe.”
I smile and trace her jaw, thrilling at her shiver. “I know that now.”
We dress and have breakfast with the others, who politely pretend not to notice the change between us. But I know better…Ghost's knowing smirk is the only acknowledgment of whatever this might be between Ash and I.
The storm has left behind a damp, yet crisp autumn day. While Ash retrieves her equipment, I walk the grounds with Lee, assessing the damage.
"Bridge'll be fixed soon," he informs me, inspecting a fallen tree branch. "Road crew's already working on it."
A complicated mix of emotions churns in my gut at this news…relief that the manor can return to normal operations, disappointment that Ash's enforced stay is ending, and fear of what happens next.
When I return to the house, Ash is waiting in the entrance hall, camera in hand. She's dressed in jeans and a light sweater, hair pulled back, every inch of her looking delicious.
“Where do you want to start?” she asks.
“The library,” I decide. “It has the best natural light.”
She grins. “Excellent choice.”
For the next hour, I submit to her direction, posing among the books, beside the massive fireplace, at the antique writing desk. I wear my mask throughout, and she doesn't ask me to remove it.
Instead, she works with the shadows it creates, finding angles that are dramatic without being exploitative.
