Chapter 78: DAYLIGHT'S WASTE
Arianna
My body was raw and hot when I finally emerged from the bathroom, the towel a flimsy shield against the cool morning air. But my steps halted when I noticed Vincent sprawled across the bed.
He looked like a fallen angel, a dark, seductive creature caught in a moment of repose. One arm was flung above his head, showcasing the subtle flex of his bicep. The other trailed off the edge of the mattress, fingers brushing the expensive, dark carpet of our penthouse master bedroom.
His slacks were discarded on the floor by the side of the bed, the black t-shirt also on the same pile. A faint five o'clock shadow darkened his jaw, making him appear more dangerous, more real. He was a handsome contradiction of contradictions, a walking oxymoron of deadly elegance and lethal charm.
He wasn't asleep, though his eyes were closed. He was just…waiting. Waiting for me, probably.
Waiting to see if I would approach, a silent challenge I couldn't resist. His chest rose and fell in a slow, even rhythm. So even that it might easily be mistaken for no breathing at all. The sheer audacity of that pose, the blatant display of ownership, should have repulsed me. But instead, it ignited a familiar fire within me, a desperate yearning to be claimed, to be consumed.
The sun was beginning to rise, casting long, golden rays across the room. It caught the edge of the framed drawing that sat upon the table, a stark black ink depiction of a woman falling into a dark abyss with shadowy hands reaching out. It was a drawing of me, I had made it after one of those moments when Vincent’s darkness threatened to overwhelm me, when the reality of his world had bled into mine.
Vincent, in his possessive way, had insisted on framing it, placing it where he could stare at it each morning. A part of me, he’d said, ‘born of him.’
I walked slowly to the bed, each step measured. "You know, you could at least pretend better at sleeping. You said that you’re tired in a need for a nap,” I mused, peering down at him.
A slow smile curled his lips, a predatory curve that made my heart flutter. His eyes, the color of golden sand, opened, their depths holding a dangerous amusement.
"I am tired," he said, his voice a low purr that resonated in my chest. He pushed himself up against the pillows, his inked torso a sculpture of honed muscle, even half asleep,”Tired of waiting for you."
I rolled my eyes, but the gesture held no real annoyance. It was our dance, this back and forth, this dangerous flirtation with fire. I crept closer to the bed, the exhaustion of the previous night finally catching up to me, sleep overtaking my mind.
“Then we both sleep,” I said, my voice already drifting towards the edges of consciousness.
He reached out, his fingers wrapping around my wrist, his touch sending a jolt of warmth through me. “Such a waste of daylight.” His lips brushed my knuckles, light as a feather, yet sending shivers dancing across my skin.
“We’ll have daylight later,” I mumbled, letting myself be drawn closer, the magnetic pull of his presence too strong to resist.
I settled onto the bed beside him, the plush mattress yielding to my weight.
The scent of him – dark spices and citrus, and something uniquely Vincent – enveloped me, and I closed my eyes, a sigh escaping my lips.
He pulled me under the blankets, the cool silk a welcome contrast to the warmth of his body. The towel I’d haphazardly draped around myself was swiftly – almost carelessly - yanked away, leaving me naked.
I didn’t even bother with a token protest. When he pressed close to my back, his chest against my spine, his arm tight around my waist, it was pure comfort.
He inhaled the scent of my hair with a deep, possessive breath. “Those damn strawberries.”
A sleepy giggle escaped me. My body lotion and shampoo, a cloying sweetness that was a stark contrast to his ruggedness - a contradiction that, perhaps, he found alluring.
I turned my head to let him kiss my neck – a slow, deliberate exploration that made my heart pound against my ribs.
“Sleep,” I whispered, my voice thick with drowsiness.
Yet, even in my sleepy haze, a sliver of awareness lingered. It was always there: the knowledge of who he was, of what he did.
He sighed, a sound that was tinged with a hint of resignation, as if he longed for this simple mundanity as much as I did.
“You too, baby.” His fingers threaded through my hair, his touch gentle this time, not the rough passion of the night.
The weight of his arm across my waist was grounding. It was an anchor in a world that felt constantly on the edge of chaos.
The truth was, I knew his darkness was more than just a façade. I had seen glimpses of it in his eyes, flashes of cold calculation that could turn the warmest gaze into a glacial stare. I had heard the low, clipped tones when he spoke on the phone – coded conversations I’d tried to decipher but always left me with a chill. I knew that while he slept beside me, a storm of violence could be brewing just below the surface.
Even the blood cleaned from his hands, the meticulous washing, the careful discarding of clothing, still left a spot.
And still, here I lay.
Wrapped in the sheets, tangled in his limbs, I felt the familiar tug-of-war within me.
The desire to flee, to protect my fragile innocence from the darkness that clung to him, and the equally powerful, maddening pull of my heart, which beat solely for him. It was the kind of love that bordered on obsession, a delicious, dangerous madness that consumed me. He had woven himself into the fabric of my being, his presence as essential as air itself.
He shifted in the bed, his hand moving to cup my mound in his big palm. “You’re thinking too much,” he murmured, his voice raw with sleep.
The words were soft, almost a caress, yet they held a command, an expectation that I would surrender my thoughts to him.
“I was just thinking about us. You,” I admit, still on the verge of sleep. That you’re bad for me but I love you. The unspoken words hung heavy between us, a shadow cast by the unspoken truths that we both dance around so carefully.