Total pages in book: 173
Estimated words: 169266 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 846(@200wpm)___ 677(@250wpm)___ 564(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 169266 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 846(@200wpm)___ 677(@250wpm)___ 564(@300wpm)
I stand there, in the shadows, invisible, watching her chase her pleasure.
And I wait.
CHAPTER 24
MIA
You are such a bloody slag.
The thought drifts through my mind, but I feel zero shame. Not enough to stop me, anyway. My robe is already undone. My hand is sliding beneath the sheets, my knickers pushed to the side.
Somewhere in Midtown, Kat is waiting for me to review her intel. My laptop sits open on the desk, the article cursor blinking impatiently. Countless responsible choices exist between me and this moment, and I’m ignoring every single one of them, because right now, tonight, my body has taken control—and it’s horny as hell.
Because my body remembers his hands. His mouth. The way he looked at me like I was something wondrous and devastating all at once. And now, alone in the dark, I can’t stop the memories of the last few days from flooding in, the dam of reason completely broken.
I close my eyes and let my hand move in slow circles, chasing the ghost of his touch. It’s not the same—nothing could be the same—but my imagination is vivid enough to make my breath catch, to make my hips lift slightly off the mattress.
I want him.
Nate.
His name in my head, his face behind my closed eyes. I picture him above me, that predatory focus in his gaze, the way his impossible muscles flex when he’s holding himself back, the ridges of his abs straining. I picture his mouth trailing down my body, his stubble scraping my inner thighs, his tongue—
A sound escapes me, soft and needy enough to embarrass myself, even though I’m all alone. My free hand releases the sheets and slides up to cup my breast through my open robe, thumb brushing my nipple the way he did.
I’m close, so close, embarrassingly fast, because apparently, just thinking about Nate ‘Vanguard’ Whitaker is enough to wind me tight as a spring.
My fingers move faster, pressing harder against my clit, and I feel the orgasm building, that familiar pressure gathering low in my belly, ready to crest—
The bed dips.
My eyes fly open.
There’s nothing there. The room is empty, the door still closed, the balcony door—
Was that open before?
I freeze, my hand still between my legs, my heart suddenly hammering for an entirely different reason. Every instinct I have is screaming something’s wrong, someone’s here, I’m not alone. I can feel it—a presence, a displacement of air, a weight on the mattress that shouldn’t exist.
Please don’t let it be a motherfucking ghost.
“Hello?” My voice comes out tight. I sit up slightly, pulling my hand free, reaching for the lamp—
Fingers close around my wrist.
A scream chokes in my throat.
What the actual fuck?
I jerk back, but the grip is gentle. Firm but not painful. And then a voice, low and rough and achingly familiar, speaks from the empty air beside me.
“Don’t stop on my account.”
Vanguard.
My brain short-circuits. He’s here. He’s here, in my room, and he’s invisible, he’s bloody invisible, and he was watching me…
“How long have you been…” I ask, sounding squeaky.
“Long enough.” His voice is closer now, right beside my ear, and I feel the mattress shift as he moves. “Long enough to know exactly what you were thinking about.”
Oh God.
Heat floods my face. “That’s—you can’t just—”
“Can’t just what?” Something brushes my cheek—his knuckles, maybe, tracing down to my jaw. I can’t see him, but I can feel him, the warmth of his body, the displacement of air as he breathes. I feel like I’m losing my mind. “Can’t watch the woman I can’t stop thinking about touch herself? Can’t wonder if she’s thinking about me while she’s doing it?”
I shake my head at nothing. “You’re insufferable. Invisible and insufferable.”
“And you’re wet.” His invisible hand slides down my throat, over my collarbone, between my breasts. “Aren’t you, darlin’? Wet and desperate and thinking about me while you fucked yourself with those pretty little fingers?”
I should be angry, or at least disturbed. I should shove him away, demand to know how he got in, remind him breaking into someone’s hotel room is several kinds of illegal, even if you are America’s superhero.
Instead, I’m more turned on than I’ve ever been.
“Yes,” I whisper, admitting it with absolutely no shame. I’m such a hussy.
His breath catches. I feel it more than hear it—a hitch in the air beside me.
“Say it again.”
God, he’s bossy.
“Yes.” My voice is steadier now, bolder. “I was thinking about you. About your hands. Your mouth.” I turn my head toward where I think he is, speaking to empty air. “About how you made me come so hard, I forgot my own name.”
A growl. Low, rough, almost animal-like. And then, his mouth is on mine—appearing from nowhere, hot and demanding—and I’m kissing him back before my brain can catch up.
This is insane, kissing a man I can’t see, feeling hands I can’t watch as they push aside my robe, shivering under a touch that seems to come from the air itself. It’s disorienting and terrifying and so fucking hot, I can barely breathe.