Fantasies Of Temptation
695 Words
I woke up late.
Sunlight spilled across the bed in warm streaks, my head still heavy from too little sleep and too many thoughts I shouldn’t have been having.
Mostly about him.
I shoved the blanket off and forced myself out of bed before I could start replaying last night again.
The hallway outside my room was quiet when I made my way downstairs.
For once, Damon wasn’t the first thing waiting for me.
Isla was already in the kitchen, curled across one of the stools in an oversized shirt with sunglasses on despite being indoors.
“You look terrible,” I told her.
She pointed at me accusingly. “You too.”
I laughed despite myself and grabbed coffee.
The morning felt strangely normal after that.
Dangerously normal.
We spent most of the afternoon together around the estate like we used to during summers before college applications and graduation and adulthood complicated everything.
Face masks in Isla’s bathroom while she complained dramatically about men.
Music playing while we tried on outfits neither of us needed.
Swimming for an hour just to escape the heat.
For a while, I almost convinced myself the tension from last night had stayed there.
In the dark.
In that kitchen.
In the hallway outside the bathroom.
Then late afternoon came.
And Damon walked in.
The shift in atmosphere was immediate.
He barely acknowledged us.
Dark suit. Loosened tie. Phone in one hand.
Tired.
Sharp.
Dangerous in the effortless kind of way that always made my stomach tighten before I could stop it.
His gaze flicked toward us once.
Just once.
Enough to make heat crawl instantly beneath my skin.
Then he moved past us without a word.
Straight to the whiskey cabinet.
The sound of glass clinking softly against crystal filled the room.
I tried not to watch him.
Failed immediately.
The sleeves of his dress shirt were rolled again, exposing strong forearms as he poured himself a drink like muscle memory.
Relaxed.
Controlled.
Every movement precise without trying to be.
God.
He took one sip, loosened his tie slightly with his free hand, then disappeared toward his office without saying a single word.
The silence he left behind somehow felt louder than conversation.
Isla didn’t notice anything.
Or pretended not to.
I wasn’t sure which was worse.
By the time night came, I escaped upstairs claiming exhaustion.
Not entirely a lie.
My room was dim except for the soft glow from the bedside lamp when I changed into sleep shorts and a thin tank top before collapsing backward onto the bed.
But sleep didn’t come.
Of course it didn’t.
Not when every quiet second gave my mind room to wander back to him.
To the way he looked leaning against the car.
The way his hand felt against my knee.
The roughness in his voice when he told me he was losing patience.
I shut my eyes.
Bad idea.
Because now I could picture him too clearly.
Shirtless in the kitchen.
Grey sweatpants hanging low on his hips.
The sharp lines of his stomach beneath my hands.
The way his breathing changed when I touched him.
Heat curled slowly through me.
My thoughts drifted lower.
More dangerous.
What would happen if he finally stopped holding back?
If one night he stopped telling me to go upstairs.
Stopped pretending restraint mattered more than whatever was building between us.
I imagined him standing over me exactly the way he had in the hallway.
Close enough to steal oxygen.
One hand pinning my wrists above my head while his voice dropped low against my ear.
Telling me how badly I’d behaved.
How long he’d noticed.
How much trouble I’d become.
My breath caught softly.
The fantasy only sharpened from there.
His hands.
His mouth.
The control in him finally breaking.
I pressed my thighs together hard, cheeks burning even though no one could see me.
God.
I wanted him to lose control.
Wanted to know what Damon Arden looked like without restraint.
A quiet sound outside my door snapped me out of the thought instantly.
I sat up too fast.
Silence.
Then—
Footsteps.
Slow.
Measured.
Stopping directly outside my room
- Writer
