It was sweet. Really, it was. Even if it was crazy to me that she didn't see the varied and numerous reasons why I could not end up with Christopher. Not the least of them being that my entire life was back in the states.
Me, though?
I was just confused.
And more sexually frustrated than I had ever been in my life. Which was really saying something because I once had a drought for eighteen months.
I was closing in on ten at the moment, but it wasn't even that.
It was just... him.
It didn't help that the bastard worked out three times a day and came home shirtless and gloriously sweaty after each session.
Or that he always smelled good.
And he looked really friggen good in a suit.
And all that seriousness he had going on? All that self-control? It made me almost obsessed with the idea of seeing him stripped of all of that, to see him come unhinged, to see what he was like when he truly let go.
It was probably a magnificent sight.
It was one I obsessed over in bed, tossing and turning with an oppressive weight on my lower belly, just begging to be released.
After a short discussion—and too many sweets—with Alexander in the kitchen, I dragged my unsatisfied ass back to bed before Christopher got back from his run because, quite frankly, I wasn't sure my body could handle seeing him like that right at that moment.
So I took a cool shower, then I slid into one of the silk pajama sets that was in the original haul that had been left for me.
Christopher, among many other things, seemed to have pretty impeccable taste in ladies nightwear.
See, I was a simple woman. I tended to pass out in an old, ratty tee and panties. That was just my usual outfit. If I was on a job with the guys, I would throw on a pair of yoga pants or something, but I didn't actually have a separate wardrobe for sleeping.
But the items that Christopher had picked out had me reevaluating that stance.
They weren't even that fancy, really. They were tank top and short sets in soft, feminine colors—pinks, cremes, light blues, sage green, a pale yellow—and trimmed in lace that was somehow soft, not scratchy.
They made me feel soft and sexy and put together. Like I could serve a dinner party in the middle of the night and feel like I looked perfectly presentable.
I had maybe added half a dozen new ones of them to my rider I had given to Christopher.
Hey, he offered.
I was going to take full advantage of it.
I was even considering getting myself a pair of kitten-heeled, furry-topped "No, Officer, I Didn't Kill My Rich Husband" shoes to complete the look.
I mean, if you were going to do it, you might as well do it up.
I heard Christopher come in almost two hours after he left. I was even weak and pathetic enough to move to the end of my bed to listen as he went into his room, as the telltale sound of his shower turned on.
I couldn't help but wonder if he thought about me while in there. I had thought about him. But I hadn't been able to get the mood right to relieve the tension myself. Which only managed to leave me feeling even more needy than I had been after the kiss.
The mental image of him naked in the shower with his hand around his cock was not helping the situation.
"Ugh," I grumbled, throwing myself back on the bed in a full-on starfish position, taking a few deep breaths, trying to remind myself of all the reasons this was a terrible idea.
Gunner would tease me.
Quin would want me to get counseling.
Bellamy and Fenway would think they did me some kind of favor.
There were plenty of reasons, but none of them seemed quite convincing enough.
The thing that kept me in bed was the idea of Christopher being a one-and-done kind of guy. And then being trapped in his house with him until God-knew when.
I did not handle that sort of awkwardness well.
One-and-done was fine.
If you never had to see each other again.
I don't know how I managed to fall asleep with my head spinning like it was, but unconsciousness eventually claimed me, taking me out of my misery.
I wasn't sure what was happening at first.
My dreams were clinging to me, refusing consciousness, trying to keep me under in that floating nothingness.
The weight could be excused as that battle between awake and asleep.
The hand over my mouth, though?
Yeah, not so much.
My eyes sprang open, seeing nothing but inky blackness, making me want to curse Christopher for not having a TV in his guest room to fall asleep to, to provide a little bit of light in the darkness.
The hand was big.
And for a moment, I wondered if it was Christopher, if he had climbed in bed with me, and was just trying to wake me up without me screaming and alerting the whole household.
But the weight was too heavy for him, the palm too sweaty.
I couldn't imagine Christopher's palm ever getting sweaty.
My second thought was Chernev.
He was stockier.
Unsure enough about himself to have sweaty palms.
But I had seen Christopher's security team; the way they lined the steps which was the only way to the top of the hill, to the house.
No way could he have snuck in unseen.
Which made my mind flash back to something I had all but overlooked about the call with Chernev.
His phone had buzzed.
He had looked.
Then he had gotten up to look out the window.
Someone had tipped him off.
I hadn't thought much of it at the time. He had men who worked for him. No doubt they were stationed around.
But what if it hadn't been one of his men?
What if it had been one of Christopher's?
What if that was how Chernev had known how to get a hold of Alexander, how he had managed to get out right before Christopher charged in to rescue his brother?
It seemed unfathomable.
Christopher was, by all accounts, a good and fair and generous employer. His men seemed as loyal as they came.
But I knew better than anyone just how far desperate men would go to get a little more money.
Just about any man—or woman—could be bought. If the pockets were deep enough. If the promises were grand enough.
And, hey, I probably looked like an easy target, didn't I? A sitting duck in a bedroom. A girl who walked around in sundresses and cooked meals with the housekeeper.
I seemed soft to an outsider.
I looked weak enough to be easy work.
But I wasn't soft.
I damn sure wasn't weak.
And I would fight tooth and fucking nail before I ever went easily.
My knees were pinned by the man's weight to the side on the bed, making the usual buck up and throw off move impossible.
His sheer size compared to mine made trying to break free unlikely.
But I wasn't above being a stereotypical girl and using my nails.
Just as a free hand had the audacity to reach down and close over my breast through my tank top, my arm flew up, nails slashing across what felt like a neck.
There was a hiss, but my aim had been off.
It gave me a good gauge for where his face was, though.
His other arm moved out, snagging my wrist, yanking it up high enough for my shoulder to scream, pinning it to the bed.
No amount of tugging could get me free.
I had one more hand, one more chance.
To do enough damage to make him release my throat, so I could scream.
I didn't like not being able to take him down myself, but I understood that it was stupid to not take an opportunity to increase your odds if you had it, no matter how much a part of you chafed at the idea of being saved by anyone.