Entangled with the wrong man

~ DRUSCILLA ~

I cannot believe I am here.

Laid out on another man's bed, my body open in ways it has never been before, my mind scattered, my senses wrecked beyond repair.

His fingers feel like sin given shape. Every touch sends sparks racing through me, sharp and sweet all at once. My body reacts before my conscience can catch up, arching, trembling, betraying me in ways I did not know were possible.

The sounds slipping from my lips do not even sound like they belong to me. Soft, broken, needy. I barely recognize myself.

God.

Mum must never see me like this. Never know that her well raised daughter is stretched out on a stranger's bed, breathing like this, feeling like this.

Shame burns hot in my chest, but it is tangled tightly with something far more dangerous.

How can I be engaged to one man and wrapped up in another?

A stranger.

A terrifying one.

A man with a dangerously handsome face and eyes that feel like they are stripping me bare, peeling through flesh and bone until they touch something raw and exposed inside me.

He does not even have to try. My body reacts to him as if it has been waiting all its life.

What kind of man does that?

The sensation builds until it is almost unbearable. My thoughts blur. My head spins. I have never felt so aware of myself, of every nerve, every breath, every desperate want.

I had no idea I could feel this way. No idea my body could respond like this. I thought innocence was protection. I thought restraint was strength.

What in the world is this man?

His fingers alone undo me, scramble my senses until even the weight of the diamond on my finger disappears from my awareness. That ring, that promise, that life waiting for me somewhere far away.

What if he goes further?

The thought slams into me so hard I almost gasp.

If he does, then I will...

Oh God.

I catch myself, the shame crashing down all at once.

Oh, Druscilla.

You are shameless.

Dirty.

I scold myself silently, my chest rising and falling too fast.

And yet.

I want him.

I want him so badly it frightens me.

He is heat where my life has always been cold. Fire where everything has been planned, measured, expected. With him, nothing feels controlled. Nothing feels safe.

My back presses into the mattress, and the feeling of his bed beneath me sends another wave of sensation through my body. The sheets smell faintly of him. Clean. Dark. Masculine.

He compliments my pink fold, and heat rushes straight to my face. My cheeks burn, and I know he sees it. I know he enjoys it.

I close my eyes, bracing myself, expecting him to finally cross that invisible line.

But he doesn't.

Instead, he looks at me for a long moment, something unreadable passing through his eyes, and then he speaks.

"I can't."

I blink, confusion snapping through me. "What do you mean?" I ask, a crease forming between my brows.

"You're quite drunk," he says calmly, his voice far too steady for the storm he has stirred inside me.

I stare at him.

Someone please pinch me.

What does a man like this know about restraint? About softness?

"What is this about?" I snap, drawing my legs together instinctively, shielding myself. Heat flares, sharp and angry now. Did he really touch me like that, awaken something reckless and wild in me, only to stop now?

Tears sting the backs of my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall.

"It's part of my principle," he says casually, like he isn't standing in the middle of my undoing. "I don't sleep with drunk women. Besides, I want you sober enough to remember everything. I want you to remember every moment. Every sound you make."

The words hit me harder than any touch.

Heat crawls up my neck, my face burning again.

"I'm not drunk," I mutter stubbornly.

He smiles, slow and knowing. "You wouldn't have let me touch you the way I did if you weren't. You wouldn't be in my bed if alcohol wasn't blurring your judgment."

He steps back and gestures to my hand.

"You're engaged."

Obviously.

I roll my eyes, but the reminder lands heavier than I expect.

Why am I only remembering now?

Shame wraps around me like a thick garment, heavy and suffocating. This moment, this weakness, tells me something I am not ready to face.

I am not a good girl.

I have been pretending. Dressing myself in virtue while something darker lurks underneath. A wolf in borrowed wool.

And tonight, I did not even bother with the disguise.

I smooth my skirt down and turn onto my side, putting my back to him.

He folds his arms, watching me like I am some kind of performance. Like an actress on stage, baring parts of herself she did not know were visible.

"You don't have to feel..." he begins.

"I want to go home," I cut in, climbing off the bed.

"It's late," he says.

"I don't care."

"You can stay till morning."

He moves away and removes his trousers, standing there in nothing but a dark brief. My eyes betray me, roaming before my mind can stop them. His legs are strong, sculpted, powerful.

Wait.

Is he changing his mind?

Does he want to continue?

"It's not what you're thinking," he says with a smirk that tells me he knows exactly what I was thinking. "I'm going to shower. Do you want to eat something?"

Embarrassment floods me, thick and suffocating.

I shoot him a look sharp enough to cut glass. "God, I hate you."

He grins, that infuriating dimple appearing. "You're hungry. But you can't eat me."

"Proud idiot," I mutter.

"Stop being so hard on yourself, doll," he says as he punches numbers into the intercom, ordering pasta, grilled chicken, and apple juice.

My stomach tightens.

Those are my favorites.

I lick my lips without thinking, anticipation making my mouth water.

Thankfully, his back is turned.

When he faces me again, I straighten instantly.

"Room service will be here soon."

I lift my chin, stubborn and defensive.

He studies me for a moment. Something flickers in his eyes. Guilt. Sadness. Something I refuse to care about.

I cross my arms and plant my feet.

Eventually, he turns and walks into the glass bathroom.

I step back and bump into the bed just as he slips out of the last piece of clothing and turns on the shower.

My breath catches.

Holy shit.

I have never seen a man like that before.

His cock was long, hard and thick.

I closed my eyes, my tongue slowly swiped on my lips as I imagined that thing going inside me. In and out.

I swallow hard, clasping my hands together and squeezing my eyes shut.

"Hail Mary, mother of Jesus Christ, please pray for me," I whisper. "I have sinned against God. I have sinned with my eyes. Please don't send me to hell. Amen."

When I open my eyes, I deliberately face the door. The temptation is too strong.

A knock sounds ten minutes later.

Room service.

I jump up like a child on Christmas morning and open the door.

The trolley rolls in, the scent filling the room instantly.

"Your dinner, ma," the attendant says kindly.

"Thank you."

I close the door quickly after he leaves. I've seen too many movies. Too many stories where the wrong person walks in at the wrong time and shoot the lady with the wrong man.

Focus on your food, Druscilla.

I eat hungrily, savoring every bite.

By the time I finish, he steps out of the bathroom, dressed in a robe, his hair damp. He notices the empty plate and smiles.

He sits, opens his laptop, focused now on something else entirely.

I watch his broad back until the room grows quiet and sleep pulls me under.