Victor
I had been staring at her like an idiot for minutes. It's midnight, and she's dancing in the middle of the kitchen, waiting for her food to finish heating up. I could say that this is a cliche scene in any movie.
Do the characters in those movies also find themselves with a huge erection in these scenes?
I hear noises coming from the main hall, and as I step away from the door leading to the kitchen, I come face-to-face with Mario.
"Why are you here?" I ask.
"Señor Marquez returned to Bogota, so I have to take care of a few things for him. I'll use the office downstairs if that's ok," he explains, his voice steady.
"Mario, I told you already that I want access restricted to this part of the house! You will not step here except for when I ask you to. No exceptions!" I reply firmly, my patience wearing thin at his persistence.
The look on his face irritates me. "Patrón..." he begins, but I cut him off.
That's all he says. He knows I'm not going to give him details.
"All right then," he nods in agreement before turning and disappearing from my range.
Returning my attention to the scene in the kitchen, I make a conscious decision not to lurk behind the door like a maniac this time.
I gulp nervously as our eyes meet. Her lips part as if ready to say something.
"What are you doing here?" she asks, removing the headphones from her ears and halting in her tracks.
"This is my house. The question is, what are you doing here? At this hour," I retort, pretending to check my watch, just to make sure the pants I'm wearing are not betraying my arousal.
"I'm hungry," she responds casually, moving around the kitchen island and placing down a phone.
Where did she get a phone from?
"What is this thing doing here?" I inquire, approaching the device she had placed on the counter.
Upon closer inspection, I realize it's not a phone.
"I'm not allowed to use this? I was told I'm not allowed to have a phone in here. So, Rafael gave me his old MP3 player. I didn't know I was not allowed to use it. I like to listen to music before bed," she explains, her tone filled with innocence.
I let out a small sigh, feeling a mix of annoyance and amusement.
Listen to music and dance, I would add, but I refrain.
My gaze involuntarily drifts over her body again, taking in her forms. I chastise myself internally for my inappropriate thoughts, but I can't seem to tear my eyes away. She's captivating, and her attire only adds to the allure. Her wet white tank top clings to her, revealing the outline of her pink nipples, while her black boxers barely cover half of her ass.
"Is it on purpose?" I ask, unable to resist the temptation to comment on her clothing choice.
As she walks away, I catch a glimpse of a fleeting smile on her lips before it disappears. "What exactly?" she responds, her innocence both endearing and frustrating.
"Your clothing choices," I remark, taking a bold step towards her, but she remains oblivious to my proximity.
"I went for a swim if you remember. Considering that I didn't get any swimsuit, I had to look for some kind of outfit, and this was the most decent one," she mutters, her back turned to me as she tends to the food in the oven.
Her explanation does little to quell the turmoil within me.
In fact, it only ignites it further. I nearly choke when I see her bend over, her toned and slender legs flexing with effort, her back arching in a way that sends a surge of desire through me.
I struggle to maintain my composure as she places the tray on the counter and begins to eat standing up. "Would you have preferred me to swim naked?" she adds, her tone laced with a hint of mischief.
My pulse quickens, and I feel a rush of frustration mingled with desire.
"I'd rather you put some damn clothes on and stop walking around my house like that!" I blurt out before swiftly exiting the kitchen.
Once in the office, I bury myself in the documents Luca left behind, trying to distract myself from the turmoil she stirs within me. Pouring myself a generous glass of whiskey, I hope it will numb the relentless thoughts of her.
But as I sift through the papers, I can't shake the image of her from my mind. The mere thought of her bending before me sends a shiver down my spine. I need to regain control. I need a cold shower to wash away the intoxicating effect she has on me.
With a sudden surge of frustration, I push myself away from the desk and leave the office, consumed by an unsettling mix of irritation and desire. It's clear I won't find peace tonight, all because of her.
Since I'd instructed Rafael to keep his distance from her door, I found myself using the spare bedroom upstairs, just a door away from hers. I could justify it as a necessary precaution to prevent her from trying to escape. Yet, any excuse I concoct only makes me sound foolish, while the truth simply paints me as insane.
I keep justifying my actions as protective measures, but deep down, I know she doesn't need my protection in this house. Everyone knows that.
I'm not even supposed to be here. I should be handling my cousin's affairs. But I'm too weak in front of my desires. I feel like a fucking slave.
As I reach the last step, just one away from our rooms, I hear screams—desperate, fearful screams. My heart pounds in my chest, and before I can fully comprehend what's happening, I'm already in her bedroom with my gun drawn.
She's sleeping.
And thankfully, she hasn't noticed my presence.
The room is dimly lit by a lamp in the corner, allowing me to see what's happening. She's caught in the grips of a nightmare, struggling against the sheets and screaming with such desperation that it tears at my soul. The pain behind her cries makes me realize that I'll never truly understand what lies inside her.
I'm at a loss for what to do. For a few seconds, I hesitate to approach, but when her screams grow louder, I don't think twice. I leave my gun on the armchair and cautiously approach the bed. My heart races erratically, and I feel like I'm suffocating.
I'm relieved to see that she's dressed this time. She's wearing the yellow pajamas I bought for her, and I can't help but think they suit her, even better than black.
"Hellena," I say, tapping her shoulder gently, hoping she'll wake up, but my efforts yield no response.
"Wake up," I try again, applying a bit more force, but still, she remains unresponsive.
I need to find a way, but the only one that comes to mind is also the riskiest. Fuck it! I'm too selfish to consider the potential consequences.
I sit down on the bed beside her and pull her into my arms, surprised by how light she feels. Her chest heaves with every sob, and I can't help but feel affected. I lay her against my chest, holding her tightly as she continues to scream.
Seconds pass as I continue to caress her hair, holding her tightly against my chest. She smells so good, and I find myself getting lost in her scent. Despite her struggles, I refuse to let her face her nightmare alone. I stroke her hair gently as she cries, feeling the warmth of her tears on my arm. With each exhale, she emits a painful sob.
Leaning over her, I press a kiss to her forehead, and miraculously, her screams cease. Perhaps my kiss has calmed her, though I know it's foolish to think so.
Yet, I want to believe it.
Adjusting myself on the pillow, I hold her close, feeling strangely comfortable with her in my arms. It's strange how effortlessly I allow her to invade my space. How natural and good it feels to have her in my arms, in my bed, in my house. The alcohol in my system may be amplifying these feelings.
I consider whether I should stay here for the night, but I can't resist the urge. Just this once. I can't bear to leave her alone, especially when it feels so right to have her in my arms.