Novel & Cerita Tangled In His Sheets

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.

I don't bother getting dressed — just pull his jersey back on over my bare skin and pad downstairs barefoot. He's exactly where I left him. Spread out on the living room floor, wrists still cuffed, ankles still zip-tied to the couch legs. His face is a mess — dried tears, crusted drool, the hollow look of a man who hasn't slept in over twelve hours. The plug is still inside him, still buzzing on low, and his cock is an angry shade of red, curved up against his stomach and leaking a steady stream of precum that's pooled beneath him on the hardwood.

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.

He is late today. "I am tired," he sighed, sitting on the edge of the bed. My eyebrows drew together as confusion danced in my eyes. It is the first time that he has said these words and I am sure there is something hidden in them. A few buttons of his white shirt were casually undone, revealing a glimpse of his toned chest beneath. His tie hung loosely around his neck, and the sleeves of his shirt were rolled up to his elbows, showcasing his strong, veiny arms. In the dimly lit room, the combination of shadows and highlights accentuated his rugged features, making him look irresistibly attractive. I couldn't help but steal glances at him, admiring his effortless charm.

I recall us being together, tangled in each other’s embrace, talking quietly as I rested against his chest, reluctant to move. “You fell asleep,” he replies in a hushed tone. “I figured you’d wake up when I rolled you off me, but you must have been exhausted.” He must have closed the shutters after that and dressed partially because I feel fabric against my back. Blinking drowsily, I push myself up with one arm, using the other for support as Vanda shifts onto his back, his arm sliding away. My gaze drifts to the nightstand, where his tincture rests.

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.

As my fingertips made contact, I noticed the creases of tension on his forehead, a clear indication that even in his sleep, he was burdened by inner anguish. My eyes continued to roam over his relaxed countenance, and amidst the shadows of pain, I detected a hint of kindness emanating from him. My gaze traveled further, descending upon his body. His black shirt was partially unbuttoned at the top, revealing a glimpse of his sculpted chest. The sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, exposing his arms, and I fixated on his hands. They appeared worse than they did the previous night, marred by dried blood and swollen knuckles. Witnessing this sight, I winced involuntarily. I had a sense that he