Page 52 of Savior

Her glare is searing a hole through my cheek. And the longer she gawks, the harder it is to keep my attention on the television.

She’s Ray’s daughter, for fuck’s sake.

God, now I’m using words I never use, even in my head.

My eyes cast toward the ceiling as I silently beg for strength.

When I return my gaze to the show, I no longer feel Sloane’s eyes on me, but the mood in the room is abuzz with something that my body can’t ignore. My eyes peek over at Sloane as her spoon slips from her lips tantalizingly slow, her mouth working every drop of ice cream off of it.

Kill me now.

Because death is better than this hell.

She shifts on the couch, thighs pressing together, and it’s like she’s sending up a calling card to my body that she needs it because I harden further.

This is dangerous.

Leave the room!

I get up abruptly, forgetting about the glass bowl in my lap. “I have to go to bed,” I manage before the bowl shatters to the floor below.

Sloane scurries to place hers on the table. “Don’t move, I’ll get the glass. You don’t want to cut your feet.”

God is punishing me for something. Now I know it.

She’s on her hands and knees, and my dick is going to break off from being too hard at any moment.

She looks up and grabs the last sizeable chunk of glass. Her eyes settle on what I was trying to avoid her seeing, and I swallow audibly.

“I’m going to get the broom,” she whispers, standing and making her way carefully around the area where tiny shards could still be on the floor.

I nod. I’m still nodding like a fool when she returns to the room.

She sweeps the floor around me, brushing the broom over my feet twice, and the feel on my skin nearly drives me over the edge. It almost makes me fist her hair and rub her perfect,haunting face over my throbbing dick just to feel any part of her against me.

I fucking need her.

Like a plant needs water. Like my lungs need air. She’s visceral to my survival, yet she’s off limits. I shouldn’t feel these things.

I can’t feel these things.

“There, I think I got it all,” she says, clearing her throat.

I fly from the room, seeking shelter inside my bedroom, slamming the door behind me.

My eyes hit the ceiling. “I know you love to test your flock, but this might be too far, don’t you think?” I growl up at the man who is undoubtedly in charge of braiding my life in the direction where Sloane’s has now crossed through the threads.

I take forever to get my body back in check, and then guilt at my behavior seeps deeply into my bones. I take even longer to gather the strength to leave my bedroom to check on Sloane.

I never heard the television turn back on, so I know she probably went to her room.

And why wouldn’t she have? I acted like an idiot.

It’s as I thought.

The house is dark, save for a plug-in light that I put right outside Sloane’s door so she could see to go to the kitchen at night if she wanted to. The slight illumination shows me that her door is open.

Per usual.

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