Page 115 of Unmarked
The moment I think his name, it’s like my body buzzes in response. My thighs press together beneath the hoodie, and my breath stutters.
He’s not even here, and I can already hear his voice in my head.
You don’t get to stand there soaking through that robe and then pretend you don’t want someone on the other side.
I shiver.
No matter how many times I’ve come today - I’ve lost count somewhere between the armchair and the second sheet change - he still lives under my skin like a goddamn ghost with a superiority complex.
But this time?
This time, I’m done pretending. Done hiding behind some outdated fear of losing control when that ship sailed four orgasms ago.
I want him. Have wanted him.
And tonight, I’ll say it.
I set the tray aside. Shift the pillows. Angle myself toward the door like I’m not waiting, like I didn’t just stage my entire body like an invitation.
And I know he’ll come.
He always does. He feels it, too. That bond, that pull, that unholy tension that practically hums through the air whenever we’re within twenty feet of each other.
He’s the storm, the steel, the one I tried so hard not to want.
And now, I’m finally ready to burn for him.
So. I wait.
Hair still damp. Skin still flushed.
Wrapped in another Alpha’s hoodie, yes - but still hoping the one who can ruin me with a whisper decides to open that door.
And when he does, I’ll say it.
Come in.
Touch me.
I’m yours.
*
The minutes stretch.
The house creaks. The radiator lets out a hiss like it's mocking me. Somewhere off in the distance, a door shuts.
My ears perk up, and I sit straighter. My pulse starts fluttering in my throat like an emotionally unstable moth.
I know you're out there. Come on.
Just open the door.
Be dramatic about it. Rip it off the hinges, even. That’s kind of your thing.
… Nothing.
The hallway stays silent. No footsteps, no dominant shadow looming in the doorway like an arrogant, six-foot-three problem with control issues.
