My hands itch to touch Victoria as I watch her sleep in the early light of day. She looks at peace as the morning sun kisses her skin, surrounding her with an ethereal glow. It only serves to remind me how pure she is, and how fucked up I am to want her.
The whole situation is out of character for me, and for a moment, panic rears its head like an ugly little beast. I don’t get attached and I’m not about to start now. A small part of me is tempted to be a complete dick and just get up and leave, making her hate me, and effectively ending this uncomfortable situation for good.
But even for me that is low. Especially when I came here last night to stop her from doing exactly that. As much as I don’t want to admit it, I don’t want her to hate me. She isn’t like the others, and I actually care what she thinks of me. Dangerous ground to be on.
I glance around the sparse bedroom and shake my head in disapproval. I still can’t believe she’s living in this shit hole. There’s definitely something she isn’t telling me. I watched the surveillance videos the detective sent me and was glad to see she hadn’t been in any real danger before she crashed into me on the street that day. But whoever she was staring at had definitely spooked her. And I want to know why.
She doesn’t even have a dresser. Only one large suitcase filled with clothes. It isn’t even unpacked, which is even more bizarre. She already told me she didn’t intend on staying here more than a couple months, but why hasn’t she unpacked?
On the dresser beside me is a stack of classic novels. But what stands out is the well-worn copy of Pride and Prejudice. Typical. Women seem to love that crap, and I never understood why.
Her walls are mostly bare except for a few small prints. Upon closer inspection, I realize they are candid shots of cityscapes, animals, and small children playing in a park. I find them quite fascinating. The photography seems to capture pure and simple emotions in the subjects, and I wonder if she took them.
Victoria stirs beside me, mumbling incoherently in her sleep. As she rolls, I catch a glimpse of the soft curve of her bare shoulder. I stare at the small tattoo I first noticed the other day. It’s some sort of script I don’t recognize. Hebrew, maybe.
There is something about that black ink on her creamy white skin I find incredibly sexy. I run my fingers over it, tracing each gentle swoop and curve. And I decide that I need to know what it translates to. I grab my phone and snap a picture of it, sending it off in a quick text.
***
Victoria
The rising sun creeps through the curtain, spilling across my face. Before I can open my eyes, I feel his warm body surrounding me. His hand gently caressing my shoulder, his scent everywhere on my sheets.
I turn my head and look up into a sea of blue. In the early light of morning, he looks different. His hair is tousled and wild, reminding me of his alter ego. I trail my fingers across his arm, over his tattoos. They are in the perfect location so that they can be hidden away by his daily business suits, or even the black tee shirt he wore last night. I can’t help but wonder at his vastly different personality types. Businessman by day, bad boy at night. I like them both, but it makes me wonder which side he leans towards more. Which is his true nature?
My thoughts wander to the night before, how sensual and caring he was with me. I wonder idly if he will be that same way again, or if it was a once off. Either way, I know there’s no ending it now. I will just have to tread carefully.
He shifts beneath me, pulling me against him. I nuzzle into his chest, inhaling his scent unashamedly.
“Good morning.” His voice is sleepy and sexy, wrapping around me like a warm blanket.
I smile up at him shyly. “Good morning.”
He picks up the copy of Pride and Prejudice from my nightstand, and my face flushes with embarrassment.
“I should have known you were a romantic at heart,” he murmurs softly. “Sonnets and emotional conversations, that sort of thing. Is that why you won’t give me a chance?”
I seize the book from his hands, shoving it down between the mattress and the wall. “I’m not a romantic, it’s just a classic which I happen to enjoy. That is all. I’m a realist, and I’m perfectly in control of my emotions. My decision last night was based on logic, nothing else.” My voice is just a little too high pitched for my own liking. Even I don’t believe me.