Page 38 of Redemption

I close the door behind me and lean back against the wall. I’ll trap her as soon as she steps inside.

There will be no hiding under her bed this time, no losing control of my physical responses. Tonight is about her pleasure, her acceptance.

I can wait to bury my cock in her wet cunt. She’ll be begging me to claim her once I ask her out tomorrow. I’ve waited this long; I can manage one more day.

I don’t plan to reveal my participation in this scene until I’m sure she’ll understand. But until the day she’s ready to hear it, I’ll keep her completely satisfied and blissfully content.

And that means both of us will finally embrace our mutual darkness without shame or hesitation. We can be our true selves together.

This is a gift only I can give her. One day, she’ll thank me for it.

“Good morning, Abigail.”I greet her warmly at the café, and it takes effort to keep the anticipatory, predatory edge from my charming smile.

“Hi.” It’s a soft, breezy reply: her usual polite demeanor.

She steams milk with one hand, and the other briefly touches her silly badges—a nervous habit that I’ve come to find endearing. Her smile is as sunny as ever, but she still refuses to look directly at me.

“Sorry,” she says, “it’ll be about a five-minute wait for your Americano. We’re really busy this morning.”

I nod in easy agreement. I’ve become used to the bitter taste of the espresso, and I look forward to the daily black Americanos she makes for me.

I’ll make coffee for her tomorrow morning when she wakes up in my bed. I wonder how she takes it. Probably with copious heaps of sugar. Abigail does love her sweet drinks.

I’m watching her with more intensity than usual, willing her to make eye contact.

But she keeps her focus on her work. There’s something strange about her this morning, something strained about her smile. As she grinds the espresso for my drink, her lovely lips go slack, and her rosy cheeks are chalky.

She seems to move on autopilot as she places a finished flat white onto the counter in front of me—freshly prepared with pretty swan latte art for the customer before me.

“Abigail?” I prompt, concern deepening my tone. “Are you all right?”

She remains fixated on the swan, and she doesn’t answer me.

Her oddly blank expression disturbs me in a way I’ve never experienced before. My stomach dips, and my jaw tightens.

Boldly, I brush my fingers over the back of her hand to call her attention to me. I’ve never touched her at the café before, but something is wrong. I’m drawn to comfort my fragile little dove.

She gasps and yanks her hand away as though my touch has burned her. The jerky movement sends the flat white flying, and coffee splatters my crisp white shirt.

I can’t hold back a sharp curse at her sudden withdrawal, her rejection. I’ve wanted her for so long, and she’s cringing away from me.

“I’m so sorry!” She frantically turns to grab a clean cloth and rounds the espresso bar.

I stand in stunned silence for a full five seconds while she tries to blot away the brown stain on my shirt.

Abigail is touching me.

It’s the first time she’s willingly made contact with me since the night we met at the bar months ago. The rush of vicious, possessive pleasure is strong enough to make my muscles tighten like I’m under some invisible strain.

“I’m so sorry,” she repeats, delicate hands fluttering around my torso.

I can’t hold back any longer. I have to touch her again.

But she’s on edge about something this morning, so I force my fingers to remain gentle as I encircle her slender wrists. Her pulse races in response to our visceral connection. She must feel it too.

She wants this. She wantsme.

I’ve known she desires me ever since she moaned my name while I hid under her bed. But the reality of her lust for me is heady enough to make me almost drunk on pleasure.

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