Tangled In His Sheets Novels & Stories

Something unnatural coursing through him. He groaned once, restless, then went still again, his massive frame sprawled across silk sheets now damp with sweat and… other things. My throat tightened, but I forced my hands steady, wiping him down, shifting pillows, straightening blankets. It was a mess, the whole room a battlefield of what we’d just done, but I did what I could. The rest… the maids could handle in the morning. I wasn’t going to sleep beside him like this. Not tonight. Not when I didn’t trust what his body might do in the grip of whatever toxin was in him. I gathered myself, pulling a robe around my aching body, and turned toward the door.

His deep brown curls, usually neat and carefully styled, were now a tangled mess, stray strands falling over his forehead. Though relaxed in sleep, his features still held traces of tension—the furrow in his brow, the faint press of his lips. He was dressed in borrowed navy sweatpants that were too long for his frame, the cuffs haphazardly rolled up to avoid tripping, and a long-sleeved black t-shirt that swallowed his lean figure. And then there was Blaire.

Everything is precisely arranged, meticulously clean— except for the unmade bed that still carries the indent of his body. The sheets are twisted, pillows scattered like he fought battles in his sleep. I approach the bed slowly, my eyes tracing the depression in the Egyptian cotton where his body lay just hours ago. The covers are thrown back carelessly, and I can almost see him there— all that controlled power finally relaxed in sleep. His dark hair mussed against the pillow, those sharp cheekbones softened by rest. Would he sleep shirtless?

When we reached the threshold he stopped, swaying. “I’m filthy,” he rasped. “I’ll ruin the sheets.” I almost laughed. Almost cried. “I don’t give a damn about the sheets.” He didn’t argue again. I sat him on the edge of the bed and knelt to pull off his ruined shoes. The soles of his feet were shredded. Gravel still embedded in the cuts. I swallowed the sound that wanted to crawl out of my throat and moved upward. When I reached for the hem of his torn shirt he caught my wrist—weak, but the grip was still there.

For an instant, he simply stared at her—the small shape of her face, the small crease in her brows, even in sleep. He reclined on the edge of the bed, his frame depressing the mattress. He slowly pulled at the sheets, tenderly, until they slid down, and pale flesh was revealed to the moonlight shining through the window. His fingers swept over the linen, leaving faint smudges of red from the small cut he had inflicted on his palm a while back. He pressed it onto the sheets beside her, staining the white sheets like evidence of a crime. He lay out alongside her, pulling one arm possessively across the space. His breathing slowed, falling into sleep.

I suddenly woke with a gasp that burst out of me before I could restrain it. The dim light from the window above my bed spread a grey tint throughout the room just enough to glimpse the mess I’d made with my twisted sheets. They were tangled around my legs as if I’d fought with someone in my sleep.. Clung, to someone. My skin was burning, excessively hot. My body continued to tremble from the dream I longed to forget. Asher.

She could feel it in the way his fingers flexed occasionally, like he was still memorizing her shape. The sheets smelled like sex. The kind that leaves you marked. Her skin was bruised in places she hadn’t even known were sensitive, her thighs sore from being held open for hours. The dim morning light barely touched the room, but it was enough to show the wreckage: torn lingerie, her dress crumpled in a corner, the rope he’d used to bind her wrists still hanging from the headboard. “You’re still here.” His voice came from behind her, deep and rough, like gravel. She turned slowly, her back brushing against his chest.

He mumbled something else she couldn’t make out as she stepped into the hallway. His door was open, as was hers, and she moved slowly toward his room. His curtains were open, and the moonlight provided enough illumination for her to see him. He was asleep, but his hands were gripping the sheets beneath him. “Don’t make me shoot you!” His voice held anguish, sounding like he was in pain.

After half an hour of rolling in the bed, she walked out to the corridor and found him at the bar. His eyes were red with unshed tears. What is wrong with him? The hair looked disturbed as if he had run his hands on it several times. His coat was gone and the first two buttons of his crisp white shirt were undone. Addedly, it was crumpled and with blood marks on it. Damn! She had never seen him so displaced.

I wondered, my mind foggy with sleep. As I tried to stretch my limbs, I realized I was ensnared in the tangled folds of the covers. "You've got to be kidding me," I muttered, frustration creeping into my voice. How on earth did I manage to get myself into this predicament? Did I unwittingly twist and turn in my sleep? I pondered, attempting to extricate myself from the fabric trap.