51

Adrian
It’s the next morning. I’m tired and still too furious to rest.
She lied to me.
Me. Of all people.
I’m staring at my bedroom door, my breath reeking of whiskey, and all I want to do is march inside and prove to her that I’m the only man she’ll ever need.
I know there’s a reason why she doesn’t fight me more.
It’s because she recognizes me. Her mind, soul, and memories are awakening because of me. She might not truly know who I am, and I’ll use that to my advantage. She’d want nothing to do with me if she knew I was the reason her parents were dead.
I’m not the hero in her story.
I’m the villain.
“Are you still sitting there?”
I have my right ankle crossed over my knee, an empty glass in my hand, and I turn to see him shove a spoon full of sugar flakes in his mouth. The milk dribbles down his chin, and he chews with his mouth open as he pulls up another chair.
My head pounds as the chair legs screech across the floor. He plops down next to me and shoves another scoop in his mouth.
“So? What are we doing? This is fun.”
I blink at him in annoyance. “I’m making sure she doesn’t try to escape.”
“Liar.”
I exhale and stare at the rainbow of light scattering across the floor as the morning sun hits the empty scotch glass. “She told me she was married, so I locked her in the room.”
He lifts a shoulder and lifts the bowl to his mouth, slurping the milk. “She isn’t married. I’ve run a background check on her. So she only told you that to make it seem like someone would look for her. She’s actually the best person to kidnap. She doesn’t have anyone. No one would miss her.”
I knock the bowl out of his hand, and soggy cereal spills across the floor, and the bowl breaks in half. “She has me. She doesn’t need anyone else. I would miss her. I have missed her. Do not downplay her importance.”
He wipes his mouth on his shirt sleeve. “I’m not. I’m just explaining you don’t have a reason to be mad. She’s single. Why aren’t you in there? You probably could have been having a bunch of angry sex.”
“She isn’t thinking of sex, Otello. She’s thinking about how to escape.”
“How do you know?”
“Because she’s a normal human being who is scared and in a place she doesn’t know. I’m really concerned you were dropped on your head as a child.”
“She has no reason to be afraid, though. I don’t get it.” He stands swiftly and grabs a few napkins from the bar to clean up the cereal on the floor.
“You’re sure she isn’t married? She’s perfect. It’s possible for her to have someone.”
He rolls his eyes and cleans up the mess. “I might be careless, but I didn’t just spend months hunting someone down, stalking them, knowing their every move, not to know the basics. Give me some credit, damn.”
I rub my temples when I feel a headache start to form. I didn’t ask him to do any of that, but I can’t find it in me to be angry. The woman of my dreams is here. In my house. In my bed.
“And it isn’t like you’d care anyway. If she were married, which she isn’t, you’d probably find a way to have her for yourself. I mean, I’m not really seeing the issue and why you’re out here pouting.”
“I’m not pouting,” I grumble, not wanting to admit that’s exactly what I’m doing. I am pouting. I’m not typically the kind of man who gets his feelings hurt. I thought my ability to even have feelings died years ago. It’s been ages since I’ve felt anything other than annoyance and anger.
But never jealousy.
Never…heartache.
The thought of her with another man has me possessive in a way I’ve never been. It also fucking hurts.
After all the years of killing and fighting for my family, I’d come home and dream of a life with Mable. I’d get lost in my studio, painting her body, imagining us together, building a life and a future I literally only could ever dream about. I’ve sculpted her pregnant belly, and I’ve carved what I thought her face would look like during orgasm in clay.
I’ve obsessed about making her mine to the point of madness. Because she’s here, it feels like she’s mine, like I know her, like she went on a vacation and just returned.
I stand, running my hands down my face with exhaustion, and then look at my watch to check the time. It’s nine in the morning, and I’ve been too stubborn to check to see if she’s okay. I also need to call Daphne and tell her we are not getting engaged.
Not when the woman I love is finally here.
I stand for the first time in hours, pop my back, groaning from how good it feels, and place the glass on the counter.
“Don’t forget we have a meeting today with father. He probably wants to talk about your engagement.”
“I’ll be calling it off today.”
“He won’t be happy.”
I insert the key into my bedroom door, unlocking it. I slide the key into my pocket before placing my hand on the worn golden knob. “I don’t give a fuck what he wants.” I think a part of me blames my father for what kind of man I’ve turned out to be. I don’t have a problem doing what needs to be done, but I do have an issue with him trying to control me.
His influence stopped when he stepped down and handed the title to me.
I swing the door open and step inside, noticing Mable lying in the middle of the bed. She has one leg on top of the covers with the rest pulled to her chin, and my eyes roam on that one leg. The skin looks so soft, so delicate, and so flawless. I wish I had my sketch pad with me. I’d sit in the corner and draw her like this, but I’ll do it later, conjuring this moment up easily and painting it on a canvas. I’ll add it to my growing collection.
My fingers wrap around the bedpost, and I lean down, trailing my gaze up and down her body. Her pants are on the floor in a useless pile.
Along with her shirt.
That’s when I noticed the deep blue material scrunched around her hip.
My shirt.
Her hair is wet now that I focus on her and not her skin.
She’s showered.
And she’s wearing my fucking clothes.
With a snarl, I push from the bedpost and stomp into the bathroom, noticing the towel on the floor. I bend down to pick it up, and it’s still wet.
I missed it. I missed her naked, washing her body with my soap, washing her hair with my shampoo, then using my towel to dry her naked body off.
I missed seeing the water droplets dripping down her body as she stood in my bathroom. I’ve never been so upset than I am about missing that moment.
I toss the towel in the hamper and grip the edge of the sink, taking a few deep breaths to calm myself. Pressing a palm against my hard cock, I moan, then jerk my hand away. I can’t do this. She’s scared of me enough as it is.
Taking a look at myself in the mirror, I notice how greasy my hair is from running my hands through it, the bags under my eyes, and the stubble on my chin.
The blood continues to pump through my cock, making it harder, the ache becoming greater, the need for her nearly impossible to ignore. I want nothing more than to rip the door off its hinges, pull the blankets from her body, push her legs apart, and slide into her warm, hot pussy that’s been waiting for me to own, possess, and claim.
But I can’t.
I undress, my cock slapping against my thigh, weighted and ready. I give myself a firm stroke, holding in a moan because it’s been so long since I’ve touched myself. I almost forgot how good it felt. I’ve ignored my pleasure because nothing felt good, nothing compared to the daydreams I’d lose myself in of being with Mable.
I was addicted to the way the mirage of her felt, and not even stroking myself to orgasm was good enough. No, no, I needed to be inside of her when I came again. I want to feel her come for me, the spasms massaging my cock to pull me deeper, milking the come from me.
Flipping on the shower, I step inside, letting ice-cold water drift over me to soothe the lust pulsating through my veins. I shiver, my hand lying flat against the wall as I hang my head. My skin pebbles with goosebumps, and I take a deep breath, watching as the water wraps around my cock.
Not even that works.
“Fuck,” I sneer, gripping my stubborn cock with my fist and angrily stroking myself.
This isn’t what I want.
I don’t want to waste a drop. I want it all to be trapped inside her, binding her to me, but that can’t happen yet, and I need relief. I need to be able to have a complete thought without wanting to rip her clothes off, shove her against the nearest flat surface, and fuck her so good all she’ll want to do is stay with me.
It’s a dream because Mable is strong and feisty, and she won’t give in.
No matter how many promises I throw at her, there’s the issue that my brother kidnapped her and brought her to me.
Forgiveness for an action like that either doesn’t come easy or, perhaps, not at all. I squeeze my eyes shut, fucking my fist faster, my thoughts going back to when I walked into the room and saw her bare leg.
Just that alone has me insane with need. I can’t imagine what it will be like to finally experience her.
“Mable,” I moan, her name echoing in the shower. “Fuck, that’s it. That’s it,” I say to the ghost of her, my orgasm threatening me. I slam my hand against the wall and groan, my knees buckling as I peak. My come washes down the drain, and I release myself, sagging against the wall to catch my breath.