Chapter 12

Kate’s POV

Sleep refused to come...

I lay there in the dark, tangled in my sheets, burning with images I couldn’t erase. Images of him—Mr. William. Of his skin glistening, water sliding over firm muscles carved like sin itself. The way his chest rose and fell. The way he looked at me when he stepped out of the bathroom… like he hadn’t expected me to be there. Like he’d forgotten the towel. Like it was just me and him and nothing else in the world.

However, the image that refused to leave my head and that tormented me the most was his massive third leg that was like a weapon fashioned for my own destruction! It was in its resting state and it was that big like a snake. Way bigger than Jeremy's full length because even though I and Jeremy hadn't been intimate I have seen his cock before more than once when we engaged in some naughty couple games and when he sent me nudes of himself sometimes.

So I am not exaggerating when I say Mr William's resting size is bigger than Jeremy's full length and Jeremy's dick is above average. I wonder how long and thick Mr William's dick would be when he has blood pumping inside of it.

God!

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw him again.

Only this time… he wasn’t stopping me.

In my mind, he crossed that last step. His fingers threaded into my hair, his mouth crashed against mine, rough and possessive. His body pressed me into the bed, his voice low and filthy in my ear while he did all the things I didn’t even know I craved until I imagined them on his tongue—using his massive third leg to destroy the inside of me completely.

I woke with a gasp, legs clenched tight beneath the sheets, my heart racing like I’d just run a mile. My body was flushed, hot, needy. And nothing—nothing—could calm it.

Except him.

The thought made me whimper. It was so wrong. So wildly inappropriate. But the ache between my thighs didn’t care. My skin prickled, alive with the phantom feel of his hands.

How the hell was I supposed to get through a whole day like this?

I curled onto my side, biting my lip as the morning light crept into the room. I wanted his touch. Craved it. Like some wicked drug that had poisoned my bloodstream from the very first night I met him.

But I knew he wouldn’t give it to me.

He’d never touch me like that.

He’d look at me with those dark, unreadable eyes and tell me to go to bed again. Like a child. Like a responsibility. Like I wasn’t already burning for him with a fire that was eating me alive.

And so I suffered, alone in my bed with trembling fingers and a traitorous body, aching for a man I wasn’t supposed to want.

By the time morning came, I hadn’t slept at all.

Just burned.

The sunlight streaming through the curtains felt like a betrayal. I hadn’t slept a damn second.

I was restless, sore, flustered—still reeling from last night’s dream. No, not a dream. A full-on, mind-destroying fantasy that had felt too real for comfort. Even now, hours later, my skin still buzzed like he’d touched me for real.

I shifted under the sheets, squeezing my thighs together, trying to shake the lingering tension between them.

But it was no use.

Everything I did, everything I thought, kept looping back to one thing.

Him.

I finally peeled myself out of bed sometime past ten, groggy and slightly irritable, pulling on a thin, oversized T-shirt that barely skimmed the tops of my thighs. I didn’t expect to run into him this early—he was usually outside or in his study on weekends, sometimes gone entirely.

And I wasn’t exactly in the mood to face him after… well, everything.

Padding down the stairs barefoot, I moved toward the kitchen, hoping to pour a glass of orange juice and maybe grab something to nibble on. But the moment I rounded the corner—

I stopped cold.

There he was.

Mr. William.

Standing by the kitchen island, shirtless in nothing but loose black joggers slung low on his hips, a steaming mug in his hand and that same damn towel from last night draped over his shoulder like it belonged there forever.

His back was to me at first, but I saw the muscles shift, his shoulders flex, and then—

He turned.

And those sharp, dark eyes landed right on me.

My breath caught in my throat.

He didn’t speak at first. Just let his gaze trail over me, slow and unreadable, from the messy bed-hair down to my bare legs. His expression didn’t give anything away, but there was a flicker—a shift—in his eyes that said he remembered last night too.

That he hadn’t forgotten a single word.

I licked my lips, suddenly hyperaware of how exposed I looked. I should’ve grabbed a robe. Worn pants. Something less… easy to take off.

He took a sip of his coffee, cool as ever. “Morning.”

His voice was low. Raspy. Like he hadn’t used it all morning.

“Morning,” I echoed, hating how breathless I sounded.

I moved past him, keeping my eyes straight ahead, grabbing a glass with hands that weren’t entirely steady. I could feel his eyes on my back, my thighs, the hem of the shirt that lifted ever so slightly when I reached up into the cabinet.

“Rough night?” he asked, casual. But that subtle amusement in his voice made my cheeks burn.

He knew.

I could feel it in the air, thick and charged, like a secret passing between our bodies without ever being spoken.

“Couldn’t sleep,” I muttered, pouring juice. “Too hot.”

My own words made me cringe, because I wasn’t talking about the damn weather and we both knew it.

There was a pause behind me, heavy with everything we weren’t saying.

“Drink water,” he said, finally. “You look flushed.”

I turned slowly, glass in hand, daring to meet his gaze—and regretting it instantly. His eyes were on me, burning and quiet, and for a second, I saw it. The restraint. The tension. The desire barely held back.

“I’ll… I’ll do that,” I said quickly, retreating a few steps toward the hallway.

I didn’t want to leave. But if I stayed a second longer, I might’ve dropped the glass and climbed onto the damn counter myself.

So I left.

William’s POV

She was going to be the death of me.

I stood there, mug in hand, trying to look normal—casual—like I wasn’t dying inside watching her glide into the kitchen in nothing but that barely-there T-shirt that clung to her curves and left almost nothing to the imagination.

Jesus.

One look at her and every ounce of discipline I’d built over the years threatened to snap.

Kate.

She moved like she didn’t know what she was doing, like she wasn’t fully aware of how the shirt dipped low on one shoulder, how her bare legs looked soft and dangerous in the morning light, or how her scent was still laced with the heat of sleep and something darker—something I was too damned familiar with.

I wanted to look away.

I didn’t.

When she reached up for a glass, the hem of that shirt lifted, revealing the gentle slope of her thighs and the curve just beneath. I swallowed hard, heat curling in my gut.

And then she turned. Her lips parted, eyes still heavy with sleep—or was it something else?

Hell.

She was flustered. Nervous. Tempting. So very young, and yet there was nothing innocent about the energy pulsing between us.

She was trying to pretend everything was fine. That last night didn’t happen. That she didn’t say those things with her mouth so close to mine I could practically taste the desperation on her breath.

“Too hot,” she’d said this morning.

If only she knew.

I told her to drink water. What I really wanted to do was slam the glass from her hand, back her into the counter, and finally do all the things I’d imagined far too many nights alone in my bed.

But I couldn’t. I wouldn’t.

Because she was off-limits. Because I was barely hanging on to control. And because every time she looked at me like that—with heat, with challenge, with hunger—I knew I was one mistake away from ruining both of our lives.

When she turned to leave, I should’ve been relieved.

Instead, I watched her walk away like a starving man watching the last flame of warmth disappear into the snow.

And God help me…

…I didn’t know how much longer I could survive this.