Page 11 of My Masked Savior
“I have to go. Work. Stay safe, Morgan.” His voice is gravel over velvet, and when he walks away, my knees feel like they might not hold me. I follow him with my eyes for as long as I can, praying he doesn’t look back and catch me eyeing his ass like I’m a starving cannibal.
When I realize I’m probably never going to see him again, my heart sinks. Maybe I should keep going to these classes after all? Just in case I run into him again…
6
DAMIEN
The snow falls in lazy spirals outside Morgan’s family home, coating the quiet street in white. I slouch lower in the driver’s seat, my breath fogging the windshield despite the heat I've got cranked up. My fingers drum against the steering wheel as I watch the warm glow from the kitchen window fade to darkness.
One light left. Upstairs bathroom. Someone brushing their teeth—must be Morgan's parents.
I check my watch. Eleven forty-seven PM.
Morgan's bedroom is downstairs, at the back of the house. I scoped it out this afternoon while the family was out at a local diner for lunch. Ground level, partially hidden by overgrown hedges that haven't been trimmed in years. Perfect for what I need.
My cock twitches at the thought of her in there, maybe in one of those thin sleep shirts women wear. The image floods my brain before I can stop it—Morgan at the gym, all flushed and nervous, stumbling over her words like I make her forget how to speak. She had no idea I'd been there the whole time, watching her freeze up during that self-defensedrill, cataloging every expression that crossed her face. And I was both angry and turned on, because it's obvious her ex really fucked her over, but God damn, she looked amazing in those tight as fuck leggings and skimpy sports bra.
I've jerked off more in the past week than I did at fifteen. It's pathetic. But the way she looked up at me from her knees, those dark eyes wide and trusting, her lips parted—Christ. I had to grip the steering wheel on the drive home to keep from pulling over and finishing myself off right there.
The upstairs light clicks off.
I wait. Count to three hundred, watching for any movement, any sign someone's still awake. The neighborhood stays silent except for the occasional gust of wind rattling the bare branches.
My phone buzzes. Ethan.
Are you there yet, psycho?
I ignore it, slipping the device into my jacket pocket. He's been riding my ass about this trip since I told him I was driving to Madison. Kept asking what the hell I planned to accomplish by following her home for Christmas like some lovesick stalker.
I turn off the ignition, the engine's rumble dying to silence. My gloved hand reaches for the ski mask tucked in the glove box—black, nondescript, something I grabbed from my gear bag. The fabric slides over my face.
The cold hits me when I step out, snow crunching under my boots. I ease the door shut, barely a click, and move around the side of the house.
The path's right where I mapped it this afternoon. Two massive rhododendrons, overgrown and wild, theirbranches tangled together to create a natural blind spot from the street. I duck between them, the frozen leaves scraping against my jacket as I push through.
Her window materializes through the gaps in the branches.
Net curtains. Sheer fucking net curtains that might as well be tissue paper, and she's only bothered to pull them halfway across the window. The bedroom glows with soft lamplight, casting shadows across cream-colored walls and a bed with too many pillows.
Empty.
I settle into position, boots planted in the snow, shoulders pressed against the rough bark of the rhododendron behind me. The cold seeps through my jeans, but I barely notice, too focused on the rectangle of light, waiting.
Movement.
Morgan steps into view from what must be the bathroom, and every coherent thought evacuates my skull.
Her hair's piled on top of her head in one of those messy buns that women do without thinking, exposing the elegant line of her neck. But that's not what makes my breath catch.
Lingerie. Black lace that cups her breasts, the kind with a clasp between them that I could flick open with one hand. Matching panties that sit high on her hips, showing off legs that look even better without fabric hiding them.
Fuck.
Blood rushes south so fast I get dizzy with it. My cock strains against my zipper, hard and demanding, and I press my palm against it through the denim. The pressure isn't enough. She's better than anything I imagined during those late-night sessions with my hand wrapped around my dick,better than the fantasy I've been torturing myself with since the gym.
She moves toward the bed, completely unaware of my eyes on her.
The bed is positioned as if fate decided to hand me a gift—angled toward the window, giving me a perfect view of the headboard, the pillows, everything.
