Dalton
I should throttle her. That’s exactly what I should have done when I had her pressed against that tree. She’s either completely dense or truly fearless.
I honestly don’t know which is worse.
Walking around the property at night is not something I’ll allow her to do again, even if it means keeping her chained to her bed. God, the thought of her tied up and at my mercy makes my balls tighten as I stalk around the side of the house toward the detached garage. I throw the door open, forcing the image of Layla naked and prone, her eyes heavy with desire, out of my mind.
The garage is cool and dark as I close the door behind me. No one here uses the garage but me. I keep my old truck here, tucked out of sight. I reach through the open passenger window and grab the bottle of scotch I picked up earlier tonight and wrench the lid open. Leaning against the side of my truck, I take a drink. Then another, and another, until I’ve finished off at least a quarter of the bottle. The scotch curls through my veins, slowing the thundering beats of my heart to a crawl as I sink to the ground.
I should just drink until I pass out, which, admittedly, was the reason I came out here for that bottle instead of going back inside with Layla.
But running into her during a walk up and down the half-mile long driveway has me entirely on edge.
If it hadn’t been me out there, it would have been someone else. And she wouldn’t be tucked in bed right now. I would have found her half rotted corpse in the marsh a few weeks from now instead.
I take another drink as the memory of the last night nurse comes to mind. Abigale, twenty-eight, beautiful and kind. God, the house wanted her. It hunted her in a way I’d never seen before. I left her alone; she had no idea I was even in the house, but that was my mistake.
Abigail is rotting somewhere in the marsh now, I’m sure.
I close my eyes and finish off half the bottle before peeling myself from the floor and walking back out into the darkness, letting the night swirl around me. Layla’s phone–which I’d found face down on the driveway near the front gate, buzzes in my pocket. I meant to give it back to her when I caught up to her earlier, but the thought completely slipped my mind. I’ll leave it somewhere in the house for her to find in the morning.
But Layla’s bedroom light is still on when I slip through the back door. Vera is sitting at the kitchen table with her back turned to me as I walk with silent steps through the kitchen. She balances a slim cigarette on her red-painted lips, her eyes locked on her magazine. She doesn’t see me, and instead of leaving Layla’s phone by the coffee machine like I intended, I decide I might as well deliver it upstairs for her.
That incessant scratching sound echoes through the house as I round a corner and walk into the foyer. Shadows dance in the formal living room, and for a split second I’m sure I see a young woman sitting at the grand piano, her ghostly white fingers resting on the keys. I take another drink from the bottle and let the booze snake through my body, numbing my senses, the same senses that allow me to see these things–these ghosts. This house is full of them.
They don’t care about me. They’re not bothered by my presence. But one of them….
That scratching sound rakes over my skin, setting my blood on fire. There’s nothing I can take or drink that will let me sleep through it, not tonight.
Not after I learned something, someone, followed Layla to New Orleans.
Someone she thought was me touched her, and that thought has me stalking up the stairs toward her room.
Call it possessive, call it an obsession, I don’t give a fuck. I made it perfectly clear who this one belonged to, and that’s me.
Her door is unlocked again. I slip inside with ease, closing the door behind me and turning the lock. A near silent click whispers through the air.
Her bedside lamp is on, but otherwise, the room is cast in inky black shadows. I look around, assuring myself that I’m alone, then let my gaze rest on her naked body.
Naked, she’s lying on her side, one of her hands pinched between her upper thighs. Her mouth is parted, her brow furrowed as her breasts rise and fall with each breath. A soft whimper leaves her lips, and her expression relaxes.
She’s dreaming again.
I lean against the door and watch her as I take another pull from the bottle of scotch, nearly finishing it off. Layla squeezes her thighs together, her brow furrowing. The wetness pooled between her fingers glimmers in the lamplight. She lets out a soft moan that has my senses on high alert.
Fuck me. I shouldn’t be in here watching her do this. I shouldn’t be in here at all, actually. Instead of leaving, I take another drink and set the empty bottle on the table by the door, my eyes still locked on her hand as she fingers herself in her sleep.
The sheets are bunched at her feet as I slowly approach the bed, resting my fists against the mattress. She smells like honeysuckle and vanilla–like a warm summer day when all the flowers are in bloom, their scent carried by a cool breeze. Her golden hair falls in tendrils over her shoulders–like pure silk, glistening with an amber sheen in the lamplight. I imagine the way I’d paint her hair, the colors I’d use to create that precious gold woven with streaks of warm platinum. Her skin is the color of pale honey, tan and freckled from the sun. I reach for her, my fingers hovering just above her skin, imagining how warm and supple she’d be to touch.
“Dalton.”
I arch my brows as my name leaves her lips. I wasn’t expecting that. I’m not sure what I’d been expecting when I came in here. I think I was hoping she’d be awake so she could fight with me some more, but this… this is so much better.
I slowly crawl onto the bed and get on my knees beside her. My fingertips wander softly over her skin.
She lets out a breath slowly as I smooth my hand down the length of her arm in a featherlight touch. Her eyes remain closed as I run my knuckles over the curve of her bare waist and over her hip bone, the flat of her belly, and down to where her hand is still covering her sex.
“Dalton,” she moans, and arches her beautiful, slender neck. I fixate on the artery there, on the way the blood is rushing through it, wondering how fast her heart is beating right now.
I slowly, carefully, guide her onto her back.
I could have my way with her, right here, right now. She’s a hard sleeper, and the movement doesn’t wake her up in the slightest, but her body reacts to my touch as I slide my hands up her waist, relishing in how the fine, white, downy hair on her arms prickles and stands on end, her rosy nipples hardening.
I straddle her legs but lift up enough so that we’re not touching. She arches her hips like she’s trying to find me, desperate for the pressure of my body against hers.
I called her fucked up earlier, and I meant it. I would know because I’m just as fucked up as she is. I’m fucked up enough to be here, in her room, touching her while she’s asleep. And she’s fucked up enough to be dreaming about me while touching herself.
It takes all of my willpower not to strip off my jeans and press my aching cock into the sweet, tight pussy that’s beckoning to me with each whimpering breath she takes. When her hands reach out to me, I gently pin her wrists to the bed on either side of her thighs, and lean down, brushing my lips over her ear, her jaw, and her neck. Her chest rises, her breasts trembling as she inhales sharply. She whispers my name again like a prayer, a nearly silent plea. I wonder what I’m doing to her in her dream. I’d love to see inside her mind for just a moment, long enough to confirm I’m making her beg.
Her hips shift from side to side beneath me as I lower my head and blow on each nipple, then release one of her wrists and slide my fingers through her wet folds. I stifle the groan that threatens to leave my lips as I plunge my fingers inside of her, her walls tightening around me.
She makes a choked sound, a soft whimpered moan, and clamps her lips together. I freeze, watching her beautiful face.
She starts moving against my touch, desperate to create that friction she needs to come.
“Happy to oblige,” I whisper, the only sound I’ve made so far, and then I fuck her with my fingers until she’s arching that sweet ass off the bed and crying out my name to the ceiling.
When I’m through, I tuck her in tight, and her body relaxes back into what I hope is deep, dreamless rest. The kind of sleep reserved for the dead is what she needs more than anything, and what the house refuses to allow her. I’ll come here every night if I have to, just for this, just to see her silent and still with the sheets tucked tight around her curves and the moonlight playing over her peaceful face.
I turn off the lamp and edge off the bed with every intention of grabbing the bottle of scotch on my way out, but stop, my fingers curled around the neck.
I leave it on the table by the door knowing it’ll be the first thing she sees when she wakes up in the morning. She’ll wonder what happened, wonder who has been here and why.
If anything, maybe she’ll realize she’s not alone in this.
I sit on the stool in my studio sometime later, the sun finally beginning its journey over the horizon.
“I warned you about going after this one,” I say to the room while dabbing a paintbrush on the palate resting in my lap. “She’s mine. Don’t test me.”