I wonder what colour she would've seen around Clay Butcher.
One thing is for sure, whatever the hue, it exists as thick, tangible supremacy that even a blind person can appreciate. So, when he is gone—at work or the warehouse—his absence makes my entire world cavernous.
My entire world… Well, that's him… This house. The maids. Jasmine. The pillow stacks. The new sofa lounge by the poolside and the old wrought-iron one that now sits as an ornament in the garden. As it should be.
My whole life…this.
I'm not allowed to leave it or expand it. Not until he finds my dad and…kills him. Of this, I'm sure. Death is what awaits the man I share blood with, the one I don't know.
I tuck my hands beneath my cheek and shuffle my legs along the sheets, settling in further. Unable to tear my gaze away from Clay Butcher's level of perfection, I simply watch him work. And while he hasn’t acknowledged I'm awake, he doesn’t have to.
He knows.
He always knows.
"Come here," he says to the screen, and my lips quirk into a little smile. I roll my shoulders, and the silk of his bedding slides down my naked body as I stand.
I’m always naked in this room.
That’s how he likes me.
My bare feet pad over the floor towards him, and just when I'm within arm's length, he shuts his laptop, slides it to the side, and leans back slightly, making space on the desk in front of him.
An action that speaks volumes.
Smiling softly at his silent order, I perch in front of him on the polished wood with my feet swinging, my knees pressed together, my hair dangling in long straight ribbons down each breast. He considers me with a knowing gleam that forces both nerves and excitement to the tips of my toes.
I wiggle them. His gaze darts down to watch my toes and then back up to settle on my face.
"You slept well, little deer," he says in a husky purr that assists the gleam in igniting my pulse. "You didn't even move when I came to bed. That's very good. Did you dream?"
"Of burning Maggie's chicken pie." I chuckle, remembering when our lovely cook had to use the fire extinguisher. Then, blushing, I lay my hands on my bare thighs to hide the way my knees inadvertently squeeze together as I say, "And of you, Sir."
He reclines further into his big wingback chair, saying, "Show me what dreaming of me looks like."
My heart does a double tap, but outwardly, I only worry my bottom lip while I hike my thighs up and let my knees fall apart. His eyes are unwavering from mine, but his intent blazes within them. After a few seconds, he drops his gaze to between my legs.
I blush immediately.
He drags his thumb along his lower lip, his eyes trained on my pussy and the underside of my backside pressed to the desk. The heat from his gaze prickles the little blonde hairs I have newly grown for him.
A smirk tugs at the corner of his lips, and he raises his hot gaze to meet my apprehensive one. "I said,show me, little deer."
He watches my throat roll, noting everything. He's always made me nervous, always set butterflies to flight within me, but now this part of our relationship is both absolute intimacy and a test for me to pass.
Can I touch myself and be present?
Am I comfortable in my own skin?
Have I moved on from what I saw—what I know—happened to me?
No. It's an easy answer.
No.
He knows this, too, but I try to please him, lifting my hand and touching the lips between my legs that are already slick in my desire for him. The wetness is a point of embarrassment as my finger slides through the thin slick result of my deep arousal.
I open my mouth, ignore the echo of grunting in my head—the blood-curdling sounds of my foster brothers' pleasure the day they all took turns with this body—and part the flesh at my core for the man who lies to keep me safe, who protects me with unwavering focus.