Bump in the Night

She’s reading an English version of Phantom of the Opera. I remember from her basic background profile that she’s interested in theater, performing mostly lead parts in local productions, mostly musicals and I wish I’d been front row for every one of her performances.

In private. For me.

How is it the sexiest thing I’ve probably seen in my life just sitting here watching her read? I can’t help myself; I bound over to the door, turn the dead bolt and storm back to my chair, irrationally angry I’ve missed a few seconds of time with her.

I release my already leaking, pounding erection, and slip my hand down, giving my balls a squeeze, trying to get them to calm the fuck down before I slip my hand over the swollen tip of my dick, slick with pre-cum. A second later, I’m hand hammering myself, and there’s so much blood rushing through the veins that lace up the shaft they feel like they are filled with cement.

I don’t want to come. I want to just fuck my fist and watch her. If I ever come again, it has to be with her. That realization makes me dizzy. Parker Silas Worthington the Third, pussy whipped already by a pussy he’s never even touched.

Apparently, strange things do happen in this house.

I watch as her head droops, nods, raises upward then droops again before there’s an obnoxious dinging sound and she sits bolt upright in bed, and Dalton’s disembodied voice comes through the speaker in her room.

It is ten o’clock. Candles must be out and not re-lit until morning. Again, if you have an emergency, or need assistance, press the button on your wristband for five seconds. Good night. Sweet dreams.

A moment later, Agnes’s room is pitch black and I switch the monitors to night vision, giving everything an eerie green glow, but I’m still riveted as she slips into bed, punching her pillow a few times to get it just the way she wants.

Then I hear her say, “Sure, sweet dreams. Let’s hope so.”

Minutes pass, then an hour. I’m still stuck to the screen, but I take some time to check my email, answer some messages and remember that I have a multi-billion dollar empire of companies that still rely on my leadership, although since the moment I set my eyes on the dark-haired beauty, none of that has mattered as much as it did just hours ago.

I type, make a couple calls, stand, stretch out my back from sitting so fucking long then look back at her monitor. The curtains on the window flutter for a moment.

I don’t remember her opening the window.

Could be one of the effects we set up has gone off on its own and I make a note to check with the other team, making sure they are not fucking with her. Before I can dial the team lead, I watch as the sheet on Agnes’s bed flutters in the green night-vision light. She moans, throwing her arms above her head and arching her neck.

Is she having a dream? A sexy dream about someone other than me, because we haven’t even met yet? That red bubbling anger heats me from the inside again. A jealousy I’ve never felt before over a dream seems over the top, but it doesn’t make the feelings any different.

The next second, she curls into a ball, the look of pleasure gone, her eyes still closed as she starts to struggle. Against what or who I don’t know, but the jealous anger turns into rage thinking she’s scared of something, even in a dream.

The struggle stalls, her mouth open, like she’s mouthing words but no sound is coming out. My chest is tight, my fists curling and uncurling as I fight the urge to go to her, fix whatever it is that’s going on.

Before I can do anything, her eyes dart open, bigger than the full moon outside my window as she lets out a scream that tears my soul in two. She’s not just scared, she’s terrified, and instinct kicks in. I’m bolting down the hall, smashing through the closed door of my wing and taking the steps three at a time, nearly stumbling as I hear her scream echoing in the tall ceilings and against the stone and wooden walls.

I take the back passage that leads to a hidden panel in her room so no one else will see me. My heart is thundering in my chest as I slam my hands against the wood, clicking the mechanism that allows it to open silently and Agnes’s screams stall.

My blood rushes through my ears. I don’t want to scare her more. Ironic, because this whole weekend was set up to scare the contestants, but she’s no longer a contestant.

She’s mine.

I step into the room, the temperature several degrees cooler than the other parts of the mansion, and I make a mental note to check the heating vents and system that serve her accommodations.