Tangled In His Sheets の小説・ストーリー

But then the sound of footsteps fading down the stairs made my heart lurch and for me to pull away from Kade. My eyes go wide. " Crap, I better go to my room before anyone comes to wake me up." I rushed out, turning around only to get tangled in his sheets that had me ending up on the floor in seconds. "Are you okay?!" Kade whispered yelled, peeking at me over the edge of the bed. With a humiliating flush on my cheeks, I wrestle with the sheets to untangle myself while reassuring him I was okay. Kade grins down at me cheekily. "Always knew you'd be tangled in my sheets someday."

I slide out of bed, bare feet silent on the rug, and press my ear to the shared wall. A muffled voice. Low. Harsh. Not English. Then, clear as a lyric, my name. I’m moving before my brain fully signs off on the plan. The hall is dim again, the sconces low. His door isn’t locked. Of course it isn’t. I slip inside. The room is darker than the night before, only a thin line of moonlight cutting across the floor. My eyes adjust slowly. He’s tangled in the sheets again, chest heaving. His hands claw at the fabric like he’s trying to tear free of something. His lips move around words that never quite form. Sweat glistens on his throat, temples, chest.

"Wish I made a video, yeah—of you fighting so hard in your subconscious to not let your shirt be ripped off. The doctor said you were probably phobic to being undressed. What's that?" Greg laughed. This time, I pulled his ear, and he yelped. "See, those nails pierced your right side, so just there got ripped." He said. I turned to my right, felt the bandage wrapped around my ribs, every breath sent this dull ache through my side,which made me groan. "That wretch!" I hissed,not even halfway through what I wanted to say, when he walked in, defiantly like he owned the air around it.

The door was closed, but I could hear him inside muttering, and thrashing, caught in whatever nightmare had him trapped. I knocked softly. “Jaxon? It’s me. Can I come in?” No response except more muttering. Something that sounded like “no” and “can’t” and a name I didn’t recognize. I pushed the door open. Jaxon was tangled in his bed sheets, sweating despite the cool temperature, his face twisted in distress. His hands clenched and unclenched like he was fighting something invisible. “Jaxon,” I said more firmly, approaching the bed. “Wake up. You’re dreaming.”

I yelled, snatching my emergency medical bag from the vanity and throwing open the mahogany doors. I didn't find him in the bathroom. He was tangled in the black sheets of his platform bed, his massive frame convulsing in a violent fit of shivering. The insulated silver ice pitcher lay on its side on the rug, a puddle of water soaking into the plush fibers. "Get out, Carrie," he gritted through chattering teeth. He didn't even open his eyes. He just clamped a hand over his face, turning his head away from the light spilling in from my room.

The sheets were a tangled mess around them, a silent testament to the chaos they had created. He stirred beside her, his body shifting against hers. He didn't wake peacefully. He came to awareness with a sudden stillness that was more alarming than any movement. For a long moment, he just lay there, his breathing shallow, then he slowly sat up, the sheet pooling around his waist. He didn't look at her. He looked at the door, as if calculating an escape route. The muscles in his back were a tight, rigid line.

She ate slowly, every swallow followed by a shallow breath. When the bowl was empty, I wiped her mouth gently with a napkin and helped her lie back down. She was already half-asleep by the time I tucked the thin blanket around her shoulders. “Try to rest, okay?” I murmured. “Don’t stay up too late,” she said, eyes fluttering closed. “You have another shift.” “I know.” I brushed a stray hair from her forehead and turned off the lamp, letting the room fall into quiet darkness. In the small bathroom, I changed into black jeans and a crop top the outfit I hated most but paid the best. The one for my other job.

My fingers tangled in his hair, thighs trembling, as his tongue drove me to the edge again and again until I shattered around his name. And when I fell back, gasping, he kissed the inside of my knee like a promise. Like he would never run again. --- That night, he held me in bed like I was all he had left. And maybe I was. But outside his penthouse walls, the press circled. Lawyers gathered. The past clawed at the door. And I knew this wasn’t the end of his secrets. It was only the beginning.

Maybe not caring at all. That’s the worst part. He never cares. Sleep doesn’t stick. I drift off once, briefly, but wake up just as fast, tension snapping me back to reality. After that, there’s nothing but pacing. Back and forth. Over and over. I stop outside his door. Stare inside. His bed is a mess. Sheets twisted. Indented like they remember him. His clothes from earlier are still on the floor. Everything about it pulls at me in opposite directions rage and something far more dangerous.

“He is awake, and he is asking for your presence. Sing to him and put him to rest. He will need the entire night to heal.” I nod. Then I bust through the doors. The entire room reeks of the scents of herbs and medicine. And my eyes instantly land on the dark silhouette on the bed. My mouth falls open. He is covered in bandages. Everywhere, from the length of his throat to the broad lines of his chest and shoulders. It wraps down to his forearms and around each fingertip. I can’t see his lower body underneath the sheets, but I have no doubt that it looks exactly the same as his upper body. It’s almost like he’s wearing a suit made out of gauze.