Sharing one bed

Olise

If the universe was trying to send me a sign to stay away from Vincent, it had a highly ironic way of showing it.

Around two in the morning, the summer sky completely broke open. A savage thunderstorm rolled over the estate, rattling the heavy glass windows with violent gusts of wind and deafening cracks of thunder. I lay awake, watching the lightning illuminate the shadows of my bedroom in sharp, skeletal flashes.

Then, with a sudden, pathetic pop, the power went out.

The air conditioning died, and the room was plunged into pitch-black darkness. I sighed, pulling the duvet up to my chin. I could handle the dark. I could handle the heat.

What I couldn't handle was the slow, steady drip... drip... drip... that suddenly started landing directly on my forehead.

"What the..." I muttered, sitting up and switching on my phone's flashlight.

I shone the beam upward. The storm had apparently damaged a section of the roof tiles above the guest wing. A dark, damp circle was rapidly spreading across the plaster ceiling, and water was leaking down in a steady stream, landing right in the center of my mattress.

Within minutes, my bed was half-soaked.

I stood in the middle of the dark room, shivering slightly in my t-shirt and boxer shorts, holding my phone like a torch. I had two choices: sleep on the hardwood floor of a leaking room, or do the one thing I promised myself I wouldn't do.

I chose survival. Or at least, that’s what I told myself.

Seeking Refuge

I padded quietly down the dark, carpeted hallway toward the master wing. The house felt massive and eerie in the blackout, the shadows stretching up the walls.

When I reached Vincent’s door, my heart was beating faster than the thunder shaking the house. I hesitated, my hand hovering over the wood, before finally knocking softly.

A moment later, the door swung open.

Vincent stood there, holding a heavy silver flashlight. He had already discarded his shirt, wearing only a pair of dark pajama pants. His broad chest and defined abs were highlighted by the harsh beam of the light, throwing his rugged silhouette into sharp relief.

"Olise?" he asked, his brow furrowing with immediate concern. "Are you alright? Did the storm startle you?"

"My ceiling is leaking," I said, gesturing vaguely behind me. "Directly onto my bed. Half the mattress is soaked, and the water is spreading."

Vincent swore softly under his breath. He stepped aside, gesturing for me to enter. "Come inside. It's dry in here."

His bedroom was massive, dominated by a towering California King bed made up with deep charcoal sheets. The faint, comforting scent of his sandalwood cologne hung in the air, instantly wrapping around me like a warm blanket.

"You can have the bed," Vincent said without hesitation, setting his flashlight on the nightstand. "I’ll take the sofa in the corner. It's comfortable enough."

I looked at the sleek, minimalist leather sofa in the corner of his room. It looked expensive, but it was definitely too short for his towering, six-foot-three frame.

"Don't be ridiculous, Vincent," I said, my voice bolder than I felt. "You're not sleeping on a couch in your own house. Look at that bed. It’s huge. It’s easily big enough for both of us."

Vincent stiffened. In the dim light of the flashlight, I saw his jaw clench.

"Olise, I don't think that's a good idea," he said, his voice dropping into that deep, warning register I was growing dangerously fond of.

"Why?" I challenged, crossing my arms. "Are you afraid of me, Vincent? Or are you afraid of yourself?"

> It was a reckless question, a blatant poke at the thin wall of restraint he had built between us. But standing there in the dark, with the storm howling outside, the artificial rules of the world felt miles away.

>

Vincent stared at me for a long, agonizing moment. The silence between us stretched, thick with unspoken tension. Finally, he let out a low, defeated sigh.

"Fine," he muttered. "But we stay on our respective sides."

The Boundary Line

Getting into that bed was the most nerve-wracking thing I had ever done.

We lay on our backs, separated by a deliberate, yawning chasm of mattress. The sheets were cool, but the heat radiating from Vincent’s body just a few feet away was scorching. I stared up at the dark ceiling, my entire body rigid, listening to the heavy patter of rain against the glass and the sound of Vincent’s slow, steady breathing.

Every muscle in my body was hyper-aware of him. If I stretched out my hand, I would touch his bare shoulder. If I rolled over, our knees would brush.

I didn't think I would sleep a wink. The tension was an physical, electric current humming through the dark.

But eventually, the rhythmic sound of the rain and the sheer exhaustion of the emotional rollercoaster of the past few days caught up to me. My eyelids grew heavy, and I drifted off into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Midnight

I woke up hours later. The storm outside had passed, leaving behind a quiet, damp stillness. The room was cool, but I felt incredibly, wonderfully warm.

I shifted slightly, trying to roll over, only to realize I couldn't move.

There was a heavy, solid weight resting securely over my midsection.

My heart leaped into my throat as my eyes adjusted to the shadows. Vincent had rolled onto his side during the night. He had moved closer—much closer. His broad chest was pressed flat against my back, his face buried in the crook of my neck, his warm, even breaths puffing softly against my skin.

And his thick, muscular arm was wrapped tightly around my waist, pinning me gently but possessively against his body.

Oh god.

I should have pulled away. I should have carefully lifted his arm, slid out of the bed, and sat on the floor.

But I didn't.

Instead, I let out a shaky, silent breath and relaxed back into his embrace. He felt so solid, so incredibly safe. His grip on my waist tightened slightly in his sleep, pulling me a fraction of an inch closer, until there was absolutely no space left between us. I closed my eyes, a dangerous, forbidden thrill rushing through my veins.

Slowly, I turned my head on the pillow to face him.

Our faces were mere inches apart. In the faint, early dawn light filtering through the sheer curtains, I could see the relaxed lines of his face, the silver in his beard, the long sweep of his eyelashes. He looked younger when he slept, stripped of the heavy armor of the ruthless businessman.

I leaned in just a tiny bit closer, my eyes tracing the perfect shape of his mouth, completely mesmerized.

Suddenly, Vincent’s chest rose with a deep, sudden breath. His eyelashes fluttered, and his dark eyes slowly opened.

He didn't blink. He didn't jump back. He just stared directly into my eyes, his gaze instantly dropping to my lips, which were now only inches from his.