Page 16 of Tainted Obsession 1
I shudder at the raw need imbued in that one word: my name rasped in his low, masculine rumble.
My lips part to sigh his name in return, wanting to savor the shape of it on my tongue.
But no sound issues from my throat except for my heavy, panting breaths.
I don’t know his name.
I don’t know anything about this dark, beautiful stranger who holds me with such aching tenderness, setting my body alight with the barest brush of his masterful hands.
My eyes snap open, and I blink several times as I struggle to adjust to reality. The familiar shadows of the cramped bedroom I share with George coalesce around me.
George. My fiancé.
My insides twist. I was dreaming about the handsome stranger who saved me tonight, not the man I’m supposed to marry.
And my thighs are still wet with the very real arousal I felt in my dirty dream: a sensation I’ve never experienced when I have sex with George.
I turn to face him, intending to snuggle into his sleeping form and reassure myself that I’m right where I belong: with the man I loved.
His pillow is cool beside me. I’m alone in our bed.
“George?” I murmur.
He doesn’t reply.
I roll over and reach for my phone to check the time. It’s still dark outside. Surely, he hasn’t already left for work?
1:27 AM.
“George?” I call out for him, loud enough that he’ll hear me if he’s in the living room or kitchen.
No reply. The apartment is silent, the only sounds coming from the street outside.
It’s fairly quiet at this time, but the occasional car passes, and I hear masculine voices in what sounds like an argument. The tone of one of the voices is familiar, even though I can’t understand the words.
George is outside for some reason. Is one of his coworkers in trouble? I noticed that more than one of the agents had been fairly tipsy when we left the bar, and they ordered more drinks as we said our goodbyes.
It’s considerate of George to keep the conversation outside so that he wouldn’t disturb me, but if someone needs help—a place to crash or even just a glass of water to sober up—they’re welcome to come into our apartment.
I get out of bed and grab one of George’s big shirts to slip on over my thin camisole. My nipples are still hard from myillicit dream, and I need to hide the evidence of my traitorous subconscious. I decide that my silky pink pajama shorts cover me enough to step outside for a moment and invite his coworkers in.
I quickly slip on my sneakers, not bothering to tie the laces properly before I hurry to join George.
The voices become clearer as I rush down the short internal corridor toward the exit to the street. They’re speaking in English, but I note the familiar Spanish accent in the way some of the others’ voices lilt.
Odd.Most of George’s fellow agents are Americans here in Mexico City, on similar assignments.
I shake the moment of confusion away, recalling that he works in tandem with local law enforcement. A couple of cops had been at the bar with us tonight.
“I want my money,” I overhear as I exit the building.
That’s George’s voice: an angry snap that I always dread in an argument.
My steps slow. If he’s in the middle of something more heated than a drunken misunderstanding, maybe I shouldn’t interfere. All I have to do is step around the corner to join them in the quieter alley, away from the traffic on the main road.
But it sounds like I might be very unwelcome.
And what money is George talking about? I know he likes to make casual bets with his friends, but I can’t imagine him being so angry about a few dollars.
