Page 33 of Velvet Corruption

Ruby was getting undressed. I could see it from the faint movement of her shadow on the drawn curtains of the upstairs bedroom. The outline was soft, hazy, but my mind filled in the details all too easily.

She wouldn’t look the same as she had back then — that much I knew. Her body had likely softened in places, the sharp lines I used to trace now fuller, more touchable. But that didn’t mean she’d grown gentler. If anything, she’d only gotten more dangerous.

I imagined the slope of her shoulder as she slid out of that blazer, the curve of her back as she reached for something, her hair falling loose around her face. She was still the woman who could wreck me with a look—maybe even more so now.

I swallowed hard, the dryness in my throat making it hurt. My fingers gripped the steering wheel tighter, knuckles going white.Look away.

I knew I was being a fucking creep, that I shouldn’t be watching her like this…but my body didn’t give a damn. I stayed rooted in the driver’s seat, transfixed, a knot of guilt and want tightening in my chest.

I should’ve driven off the moment I parked. Should’ve reminded myself this was a job—a necessary evil to keep the family intact. But instead, I was sitting, watching shadows dance behind curtains, imagining things that weren’t mine to imagine.

Her bedroom light flickered off, and the house went dark.

The tension in my stomach eased slightly, only to coil again, sharper this time. What the fuck was I doing? Sitting here, in the dark, outside her house? This wasn’t who I was—or maybe it was, and I’d just been fooling myself for years—

The light clicked on again.

She moved toward the nightstand, her silhouette bending slightly as she opened the drawer. My pulse kicked up…because I knewexactlywhat she kept there.

And sure enough, her hand closed around it.

Slender. Smooth. Familiar.

She lingered on it for a beat, her fingers drifting over the vibrator. She’d never been shy about her toys when we were seeing each other, and something deep inside me reveled in the fact that I still knew her well enough to know what she was up to.

The light went out.

Fuck.

She’d probably had a long day—I could see it in the way her shoulders slumped when she got out of the car, in the tight lines around her mouth as she kissed her daughter goodnight. But now? Now she was alone.

Unwinding the way I used to beg her to let me watch…maybe even thinking about me.

About my lips on that damn scone, tasting her lipstick and sugar.

And the images came fast, unstoppable—the way she might lean back, slow and practiced. The way her thighs would part, eyes fluttering closed as she touched herself, letting the stress bleed away.

I knew how she sounded when she came.

Knew how to pull those sounds from her throat with my mouth, my hands, my name.

And now I had to sit here, hard as hell, and imagine it.

Christ.

I couldn’t resist anymore. It felt like my body was in charge when I undid my belt, when I held my hard cock in my hand.

I kept my eyes glued on that window, thinking about her. I stroked slowly at first, trying to savor the torture, but the need was too great. Each pull brought a rush of memories—her skin against mine, her breath in my ear, the heat of her. I bit down on my lip to keep from making noise, from letting out the pent-up frustration that had been building for weeks.

My gaze never left her window. I imagined her lying in bed, eyes half-closed, one hand slipping beneath the sheets while the other held whatever toy she’d taken from the nightstand. She’d favored curved, vibrating dildos…and fuck, she was probably thinking about how my cock used to feel inside her, wasn’t she? My mind painted a picture of her body arching, muscles tensing, every movement precise and desperate.

My strokes were slow, torturous, each one sending a jolt through me that I tried to suppress. I didn’t want to rush it; I wanted to savor every forbidden second, every illicit thought. The image of her in the café played over in my mind—the defiant set of her shoulders, the flash of anger in her eyes when she saw me. How could she have known? How could she have guessed that seeing her again would unravel me like this?

I pictured her angry now, furious that I’d disrupted her life, that I was here watching her. Her anger had always been the hottest thing about her—because underneath it, there was passion. Passion that could be redirected, channeled. How angry would she be if I walked in right now, made it clear I knew where she was and what she was doing?

How hard would she clench around my cock when she gave in?

How sharp would her nails be as she raked them over my back?

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