Chapter 84 84
Elliot’s POV
I left Andrew there in the dining room, with his coffee cup and his winner’s smile.
I glanced down at my empty plate, stood up slowly, and excused myself with a vague apology about pending matters. He nodded, still floating on that cloud of ambition I had handed him myself.
Perfect.
Let him stay there, dreaming of the CEO position, of the power I was going to give him like a poisoned gift. I climbed the stairs with my pulse already racing, wondering what Kate was doing at that moment.
Was she still asleep? Hair tousled across the pillow, body relaxed under the sheets, her round belly rising and falling with each breath? I wanted that image. I wanted to see her freshly awake, without the shield of clothes or Andrew’s company. I wanted to keep it in my mind like a secret only I would have.
I found myself in the hallway of the guest rooms, heart pounding hard, like a dull drum in my chest. I couldn’t hold back. Andrew was downstairs, busy with his breakfast; he’d surely take a while to come up.
I wanted to see Kate now, in the morning, before the day claimed her for him. I wanted that stolen intimacy, that vision of her that belonged only to me.
I walked quickly toward the guest room, footsteps muffled by the thick carpet. I raised my hand hesitating in front of the door, fist clenched as if about to knock. But I didn’t knock. Instead, I slowly turned the knob, without a sound. The door opened easily.
I entered.
The room was dim, curtains half-drawn letting in strips of light that fell across the unmade bed. I heard water running in the adjoining bathroom. My feet moved on their own, drawn to the sound like a magnet.
Christ! I knew she was naked, that she was showering. I wanted to see her. My heart slammed against my ribs, pulse throbbing in my temples.
I approached the bathroom door, hand on that knob too. I turned it slowly, opening just a crack. Warm steam escaped, fogging the mirror. And there she was, under the shower stream, water cascading over her body like a waterfall.
I saw her. Water ran through her dark hair, plastering it to her back and shoulders, droplets sliding down the curve of her neck, over her swollen breasts—so rounded, fuller, firmer than I remembered. She was washing her hair with slow movements, hands massaging shampoo into her scalp, white foam sliding down her skin. Her round, prominent belly glistened under the water, skin stretched smooth, that dark line running from her navel downward. She bent slightly to rinse, water pounding her back, curving over her wider hips, streaming down her strong thighs. She turned slowly, letting the spray hit her face, eyes closed, water washing away the foam. Then she took the body wash, poured it into her hands, and began soaping herself. First her neck, shoulders, down to her breasts—palms open, covering them, massaging slowly; her nipples hardened under the touch. I could see them, fuck, I could see her like this… She moved lower to her belly, rubbing carefully in circles, as if cradling the baby inside. The water made her shine, every curve defined, every movement fluid. Then lower still, to her hips, hands gliding over the outer thighs, then the inner. She crouched a little, belly heavy, and washed between her legs, fingers moving soft, intimate, rinsing directly under the stream. She straightened, ran her hands over her buttocks, lower back, her whole body trembling slightly under the heat of the water. It was a long, unhurried session, as if she were savoring the moment alone, no rush. Steam enveloped her, water falling endlessly, droplets tracing every curve, every fold.
Why the hell was she so beautiful?
Too beautiful. Perfect!
When she turned toward the door, she met my gaze. Her eyes widened for an instant—pure surprise—but she didn’t scream. She didn’t even cover herself. She just looked at me, water still pouring over her. For a moment panic flooded me at being caught, but I didn’t run; my body refused to move. I was absorbed in her, in this living image of perfection.
I feared she would ask me to leave… but Kate’s gaze held mine for several seconds.
She continued bathing as if nothing had happened. She took the conditioner, applied it to her hair, massaging her scalp, eyes now fixed on me, unblinking. She rinsed slowly, water washing away the foam, streaming down her naked body. She washed her face with soap, rubbing her cheeks, forehead, neck. All without hurry, as if my presence challenged her to keep going.
I stayed there, prisoner of that sight. Lips dry, throat closed. My erection strained painfully against my pants, demanding contact, knowing she was so close… needing urgently her touch, her wet, hot walls.
I couldn’t move. Only watch. Her body, the large belly, heavy breasts, strong thighs. All wet, glistening, unbearably sensual.
I wanted to touch her. I wanted to step into the shower, press my body against hers, feel the hot water between us. But I stayed still, breathing heavily, eyes devouring her. It took monumental effort, but I forced myself to only observe.
When she finished, she turned off the faucet. The sudden silence was deafening. She stepped out of the shower slowly, water dripping onto the floor. I entered then, took the white towel from the rack, opened it, and wrapped her in it. My hands brushed her damp skin—shoulders, back. She trembled slightly but said nothing. She only looked at me, dark eyes filled with something that wasn’t fear. Fuck, it couldn’t be fear, nor shame.
I left the bathroom without a word, closing the door behind me. I stayed in the bedroom, pulse pounding in my temples. The erection still hard, desire burning inside me. I waited until I heard her come out, dressed, and then I left.
But that image stayed engraved. Forever.