You sat cross-legged on your king-sized bed, the soft cotton sheets still rumpled from a night of untroubled rest. Sunlight filtered through the sheer curtains, casting warm patterns on the tiled floor—it was 10:00 a.m. on a lazy Sunday, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you'd slept deep and dreamless. No nightmares chasing, no ghosts of old betrayals whispering in your ear, no counting numbers. Just peaceful black, a rare gift that left you feeling almost human again.
Your mind wandered back to the night before: your cousin's raw vulnerability in the car's dim glow, tears soaking your lap as you stroked his back, the unexpected spark that had ignited between you. And then, the impromptu driving lesson on a quiet back road—his patient hands guiding yours on the wheel of the black Audi, laughter bubbling up when you clipped a curb and sent gravel flying. The car was a wreck now, scratches and dents on its sleek lines in the garage below, but you'd appreciated the gesture. It was real, unforced—his way of pulling you both from the edge.
You couldn't shake him from your thoughts. Your fingers trailed absently to your thighs, brushing the spot where his head had rested, then up to your waist, tracing the ghost of his touch. Warmth pooled low in your belly; you imagined his hands lingering longer, exploring... God, what are you thinking?Heat flooded your cheeks. You slapped them lightly—once, twice—soft enough not to sting, but firm enough to jolt you back. "Snap out of it," you muttered, shaking your head like a dog shedding water, dark strands of your hair whipping across your face.
Sundays had always meant church, back when faith felt like a steady anchor—your family's custom, with its crisp dresses and echoing hymns wrapping around you like a hug. But after the betrayals, the humiliations that chipped away at your soul, you'd let it slip. Religion? A faded postcard from a life that no longer fit. Today, though, a quiet pull tugged at you, stronger than the ache in your chest. Too late for the service—your old parish wrapped up by 9:00 a.m., the bells silent now. So you slid to your knees beside the bed, the plush rug soft under your shins, and mumbled a simple prayer. Words tumbled out in fragments: gratitude for the sleep, pleas to quiet the storm in your heart, and a firm shove at those forbidden feelings for him. *Keep me steady,* you whispered, folding your hands tight.
Prayer done, you stood and peeled off the lacy night lingerie, the silk whispering against your skin as it pooled at your feet. You slipped into something easy—soft yoga pants that hugged without clinging, a loose cotton tee in faded blue, and slip-on sneakers for the stairs. Comfort over armor today. The house smelled of fresh coffee and something sweet as you descended, the grand staircase creaking faintly under your steps, and you headed to the sunlit dining room.
As always, Margret had set the table with quiet efficiency. Your breakfast waited: a towering stack of golden waffles, edges crisp and dusted with powdered sugar, flanked by a tall glass of frothy milk. The housekeeper's cooking was her one unbreakable rule—flaky pastries that melted on the tongue, flavors layered just right. Sure, she was scatterbrained with schedules and sometimes "forgot" the laundry, but this? This was why you kept her around, inconsistencies and all.
You settled into the high-backed chair, rubbing your hands together with eager friction, the anticipation building for that first perfect bite. But before your fork could pierce the top waffle, Daniel appeared—like a ghost summoned from thin air. Half-naked, sweatpants slung low on his hips, the faint outline of him shifting beneath the fabric. His abs gleamed under the morning light streaming through the bay windows, a lazy yawn stretching his jaw as he padded barefoot toward the kitchen. He emerged seconds later with a steaming mug of coffee, the lid already popped, sipping it slow and deep, eyes half-lidded in contentment.
You stared, fork frozen mid-air, annoyance bubbling up. How had he missed you sitting right there, sunlight haloing your plate? But then he paused, mid-sip, and shot you a sidelong glance—those dark eyes locking on yours with deliberate heat. A slow smile curved his lips, all promise and no words, before he turned and climbed the stairs, each step deliberate. The door to his room clicked shut upstairs with a soft, final thud.
It hit you clear as the coffee's steam: he wanted you to follow. Play his game, chase the bait. Inexperienced as you were in these charged dances, one thing rang true—he was dangling the invitation, waiting for you to bite. But choice loomed like a fork in the road. Follow him up, let him lead, surrender the upper hand like some wide-eyed lamb? Or ignore it, queen it out—make him come crawling, feed that ego you'd starved too long?
The tug-of-war raged inside you. Normally, you'd pick door number two: composure as crown, curiosity caged. But today? Horniness whispered louder, a restless itch from three years dry—your last fling a sloppy mistake with a coworker, all fumbling hands and regret that nearly unraveled you. Since then, toys in the nightstand drawer, quick fixes in the dark. No strings, no mess. But him? The pull was messier, alive.
You scoffed, appetite souring like milk left out. The waffles sat untouched, steam curling up like a taunt. No—there was only one play here. Escape. You shoved back from the table, chair scraping loud against the tile, and marched to the servants' quarters at the back of the house. Robert's door creaked open under your knock, the driver blinking sleep from his eyes, rumpled in his off-day sweats.
"Where we off to, miss?" he mumbled, voice thick with interrupted rest, stifling a yawn as he scratched at his stubble.
"Nowhere special," you said, forcing a casual shrug. "Just drive around town."
He nodded without fuss, grabbing his keys as you led the way to the garage. The black Ford Jeep waited, its tinted windows promising anonymity, engine rumbling to life with a low growl. Tires crunched over the gravel drive, and you pulled away from the house, the mansion shrinking in the rearview like a bad dream fading.
You'd chosen the smart path—ego intact, heart unbruised. But as the city blurred past—coffee shops buzzing with brunch crowds, parks dotted with joggers—a quiet regret gnawed. What if that door upstairs slammed shut forever? Did you care? Hell yes. Feelings didn't ask permission; they just crashed in, messy and uninvited. And now, with the wind whipping through the cracked window, you wondered if running was just another way of chasing.