15. Natalie

15

NATALIE

I ’ve bathed in a perfect pink marble bathtub, soaking my body in water that’s rich with Epsom salts and Jo Malone bubblebath as I wonder how the fuck I’ve ended up in this ultimate, if temporary cliché—a gilded cage.

I’ve indulged in the comfort of a night-time ritual complete with as few of the items from Selfridges beauty department as I could get away with: namely cleanser and moisturiser.

I’ve brushed my teeth and checked my levels and donned these sumptuously silky pyjamas that slink when I walk across the room.

I’ve turned off the lights and set my phone on the convenient wireless charger and climbed into a bed so high and soft and warm, thanks to the hot water bottle tucked cosily inside it, that I would happily stay here forever if I wasn’t so desperate to put serious mileage between me and the Beast.

It’s only now, as I lie on my back in the dark and hug my hot water bottle to my stomach, that I allow myself to face what is really the worst thing about this entire situation .

And that’s not my having humiliated myself with a full-on hypo in front of the person I despise most.

It’s not being here, having to accept (however reluctantly) the hospitality of a man I hate and having his insane wealth rammed down my throat.

It’s not even the niggling, unshakable feeling that in the past few hours, it’s he who’s behaved immaculately, generously, who’s hosted me graciously, and I who’ve been an ungrateful, churlish little shit. Especially given my parting shot—a shot I can’t help but suspect was way below the belt. A shot I regretted as soon as I saw the overt hurt on his face.

It’s worse than all that.

It’s this secret knowledge whose existence has been corroding my insides for the past few hours now:

If I didn’t know who Adam Wright was and what he was capable of in the past, if I hadn’t lived twenty years with the scars his despicable crime had left not just on my brother but my entire family, if he was a random, dashing hero whose presence of mind and extreme generosity and stunning home and overall concern for my welfare represented the extent of my knowledge of him, then let me tell you this:

I would be swooning right now.

Swooning.

Hard.

I mean, come on. It would be like I’d fallen into the pages of some excellent Beauty and the Beast reimagining, where the beast was Mr Darcy, and he was—some irritating high-handedness aside—utterly, unspeakably perfect.

No transformation necessary.

And I think that awareness makes this entire situation even less tenable than it should be. Being here is a double blow. Not only have I surrendered to the will of a man I know to be capable of horrifying violence, but I’ve exposed myself to that alluring disguise of his, and boy, is it a good one.

He’s so handsome. So commanding. Everything he’s done this evening, from reacting to my hypo with actual tears of concern, to the insanely generous Selfridges haul, to Dr Dyson dropping everything, to his insistence that I stay here and rest, feels like a fairytale. Being on the receiving end of that while knowing I can’t trust it, I can’t enjoy it or lean into it, I can’t allow myself to be flattered or hopeful or to flirt gently with my handsome rescuer, hurts my heart a little.

The fantasy is so good, and it’s not real, and it’s a crying shame.

To milk my Beauty and the Beast analogy dry, it’s as if he’s the anti-Beast. You know, instead of a wonderful man lurking beneath the gruff hostility and the handsome prince hidden under the hideous fur and teeth and claws, it’s quite the opposite.

The surface experience is the urbane, good-looking prince in his immaculate castle. At first glance, he’s the fairytale.

The animal that lies beneath, and the savagery of which it’s capable, is nowhere to be seen.

Unless you know where to look.

When I wake, it’s sudden. I lie for a second on my side, my arms still wrapped around the now-tepid hot water bottle, eyes closed and sleep-drugged brain trying to make sense of where I am.

Shit. I’m at Adam’s.

And that was a— snore ?

My eyes fly open. The room is dim, but not dark. My door, which I most definitely shut before I went to bed, is ajar, and soft light from the hallway spills into the room, illuminating what is most definitely Adam on the bed next to me.

What the fuck is he doing here?

My entire body tenses, my fingers gripping the hot water bottle as my brain attempts to process what I see.

He’s sitting up against a pile of pillows, legs stretched out, curly head flung back in an uncomfortable-looking position, fast asleep and snoring gently with his fingers intertwined over his stomach. He’s lost the hoodie, kept the soft-looking white t-shirt, and gained a tent in his jogging bottoms the size of a bloody wedding marquee.

Oh my God.

Oh my God.

I eye it in disbelief. It may be dim in here, but I’d have to be registered legally blind not to be able to make out that thing. It’s testing the limits of his jogging bottoms, the jersey stretched taut over his, um, tent pole. It’s— he’s —about two feet away from me.

Close enough that if I pulled my hand out from under the covers and stretched, I could touch it. I could slip my fingers beneath that straining waistband and wrap them around his length.

I could lean over, even, and lick a path through his crown, enjoying the music of his moans as he crossed over into consciousness with my mouth on him.

Now that would be a way to wake him up, this delicious, interfering man who just can’t help himself. Who’s used to getting exactly what he wants, whether he uses his fists or his bank balance to do it.

I may despise him, but I can’t deny it’s been a while since I saw any form of dick, let alone one that impressive. And it seems my greedy little vagina doesn’t care about his morally corrupt soul or his black heart.

She just cares that there’s a beautifully sexy, sleeping man right here with a dick that, from the looks of things, could make every problem in life fade into insignificance.

It doesn’t help that, in sleep, he looks like a fallen angel, his dark curls just mussed enough to invite my fingers to rake through them, repose softening his face. He doesn’t scare me, I realise. Not when he’s like this, looking as innocent as the day he was born. If I’m being completely honest, he hasn’t scared me at all since I came around from my hypo to the sight of his tear-stained cheeks.

He’s been on my bed for God knows how long—hours, possibly—and he’s watched me sleep. I may be mortified by that thought, but I’m not scared by it. I don’t feel vulnerable.

Just curious… and aroused.

Very, very aroused.

My nipples are tight little furls. I brush my arm over one of them, and the ache has me biting down on my lip. The silk of my pyjamas feels so sensual against my skin. It’s a caress I could do without.

I need to get a fucking grip. And, ideally, more sleep. And I definitely need to get rid of him.

I cast my eye over him. If his dick wasn’t such a distraction, I’d obsess over the sliver of tanned, lean stomach that’s on display courtesy of his t-shirt, which has ridden up. I’d try to read the basic-looking tattoo on his bicep. All I can see is a capital E. I wonder if it’s prison ink. It looks like it. I can’t square the considerate man lying here amidst his splendour, on my bed, with the thug who disfigured my brother and served time .

I also can’t square my hatred of him with the pang I feel when I think about him locked up behind bars. Nope. Definitely not going there.

My gaze wanders over the fine sight his taut forearm makes and onto the duvet cover. There, lying next to him is a small pile of stuff. What is it? I crane my head up gingerly without moving my body.

Oh my God. It’s a motherfucking test kit. There are a couple of lancets for pricking my fingers, and I spot a tube of what looks like an unfamiliar brand of glycogel.

It seems our resident heartless thug has been keeping a bedside vigil, primed to test me if he suspects my glucose of plummeting in the night.

It’s overbearing, definitely. And unnecessary. And borderline invasive—or outright invasive, even. But it’s also comforting to know he had my back, and it’s even a little sweet, I suppose.

His fingers have been inside my mouth today, and now his dick is pointing north on my bed.

He needs to get out of here before I do something I regret.

Like climb on it.

Or kick him off the bed.

Not sure which.

I do the only thing I can feasibly do, which is to wake him without alerting him to my being awake. I roll over heavily, noisily, faking a loud, sleepy sigh and tugging the duvet with me as I go. And then I lie curled up on my side, vagina throbbing and heart hammering and eyes screwed shut, and I wait.

His breathing changes. The bed shifts, and I imagine him sitting up beside me. Realising he’s been asleep. There’s the faint sound of him gathering up the paraphernalia he brought with him, a quiet curse that makes me press my lips together in amusement while I keep my breathing audibly even. I wonder if that’s him registering his boner.

Then he’s climbing off the bed.

The door clicks softly shut behind him.