Page 31 of The Souls We Claim
Halo’s head is rested against the tile, too into what he’s doing to notice me one foot through the doorway.
If he did, he’d probably notice the way my nipples have pebbled beneath my T-shirt. My core tightens. Patrick was an attractive man. He kept himself in shape. He even had a tattoo sleeve, but Halo is…
Delicious.
Ink covers the upper part of his chest, both arms, and his hands. His long hair hangs over his shoulders. There is hair on his chest. A glorious specimen of a man.
“Fuck, Arianne,” he mutters, and I glance at his face, expecting to find his eyes on me. But they are still closed.
Oh, God. Is he thinking about me?
Placing my hand on the doorframe, I mentally urge myself to leave, even as I try to silently pull the door closed behind me.
I even try to recall parts of the dream. Anything to take me off the collision course I’m on. The one where a man really wants me. The one where the very idea of me gets him so hot, he has to take care of himself in private. There’s only ever been Patrick, and he’s made me feel like… I don’t know, a vessel maybe. I’m the place he can come in. I’m the person he takes everything out on. He loved the idea of me.
But not once did he make me feel desired.
Not once did he ever make me feel like I was his reason for being, that he couldn’t wait to make love to me, rather than it being my responsibility as a wife to be available to him.
I was meant to compliment him on his physique, on his looks, on the things he did for us. I was meant to make him feel good about himself, like he was a hero.
Never did he make me feel wanted. He made me feel like a temptress. One without control. One there to make him think something impure.
Sex with him always left me feeling dirty down to my soul. In need of a shower.
Speaking of which.
I allow my eyes to drop to Halo’s hand, watching as he shifts from long strokes of the full length, to shorter strokes that focus on the head.
His abs clench, and I know that feeling, that moment when an orgasm is getting close. I rarely came with Patrick, but on my own, I could. My clit aches to be touched, but I daren’t move. I don’t want to break whatever moment this is.
It’s wrong to watch without his permission. It’s voyeuristic. But watching this utterly strong and virile man do this is heady.
A part of me wishes I were brave enough to tug my T-shirt over my head, walk into the shower, and offer to help him. My mouth waters as I imagine what it would be like to drop to my knees beneath the warm spray and open my mouth.
The vision shocks me as I hated giving blow jobs to Patrick. Maybe I feel like Halo might see it as the gift I’m offering instead of the service I’m meant to provide.
Suddenly, Halo lurches forward, slamming his palm on the glass shower wall, his eyes wide open, focused on me.
“Arianne,” he groans as he comes. His cum hits the shower wall in thick white spurts before being washed down the drain.
And I turn and run from the bathroom.
When I get to my bedroom, I leap onto the bed and pull the covers over me like a five-year-old hiding from an imaginary monster. I don’t want to see his face. I don’t want to see anger.
What if he kicks me out for invading his privacy?
Oh, God. What did I just do?
I slide my hand between my legs and press the heel of my palm against my aching clit, urging it to think less about an orgasm and more about being homeless.
Patrick’s voice coaxes me back to reality.You don’t deserve an orgasm.
The sheets are too much for my hypersensitive skin, and I push them back. My breathing is still a little ragged, and I take a few deep breaths as I try to bring myself back under control.
I need to get cleaned up, and then I need to go and apologize. Everything that just happened in that bathroom was pure fantasy. If a man of Halo’s size put his hands on me, I’d freak out. He could snap me in half without breaking a sweat.
And yet he picked me up and put me on the counter so he could tend to the cuts on my feet when the glass broke.
