Chapter 91
~ Clinton ~
The water in the shower had been as cold as I could stand it, a bracing, icy needle-spray intended to wash away the heat that had begun to simr in my veins the mont Octavia stepped into my apartnt.
I had spent the better part of the evening trying to resist the magnetic pull of her presence. It was an exhausting exercise in futility.
Even as she sat across from at the breakfast bar, the light catching the gold in her eyes and the curve of her smile, I had felt the familiar, agonizing ache of wanting sothing — soone — who was perpetually just out of reach.
I had excused myself to shower not because I was dirty, but because I was dangerous. To myself, mostly. I didn’t want to do sothing she wasn’t ready for. I didn’t want to be another man in her life who overstepped, who ignored her boundaries, or who treated her like a prize to be won rather than a woman to be respected. I loved her — God, did I love her — but I knew that if I stayed in that kitchen one minute longer, watching the way her bathrobe dipped at the collar, I would have walked toward her and crushed my lips against hers.
I would have kissed her with all the pent-up frustration of the last few years, and in doing so, I would have lost her forever.
The apartnt was deathly quiet when I finally stepped out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around my waist and another draped over my shoulders. The silence was heavy, almost suffocating. For a frantic, heart-stopping second, I thought she had left. I imagined her slipping out the door while the water was running, leaving behind nothing but the scent of her perfu and the half-empty wine glass.
My chest tightened at the thought; it was a ridiculous fear, a symptom of the insecurity she unknowingly bred in , but it was there nonetheless.
I ran a towel through my damp hair, the droplets of water cold against my skin, as I walked back into the living room. That was when I saw her.
Octavia hadn’t left. She was curled up on my oversized velvet couch, tucked into the cushions as if she had been born to occupy that exact space. Her eyes were closed, her lashes casting long, delicate shadows against her cheeks.
She was asleep, her breathing deep and rhythmic, punctuated by soft, barely audible snores that made my heart skip a beat.
I stood there for a long ti, just watching her. The tension that had been coiling in my gut all night finally began to loosen, replaced by a profound, aching tenderness.
"She actually stayed," I whispered, the words disappearing into the shadows of the room.
Carefully, moving with the stealth of a man navigating a minefield, I walked over to the couch.
Her hand was draped over the edge, her fingers loosely curled around the stem of her wine glass. It was tilted at a precarious angle. I leaned down and gently pried the glass from her grip, my skin brushing against hers for a fleeting second. She stirred, a small mumble escaping her lips, but she didn’t wake.
I set the glass down on the coffee table and then, unable to help myself, I crouched on the rug in front of her. I rested my forearms on my knees, my gaze tracing every line of her face. There was sothing dangerously peaceful about her like this. In the light of the day, or under the scrutiny of the public eye, Octavia was a fortress. She had walls, guarded expressions, and a calculated distance that kept the world at bay.
But here, in the dim glow of my living room, the fortress was down.
She was just a girl, tired and hurt, seeking refuge in the ho of a man she hoped she could trust.
"You have no idea what you do to , do you?" I said, my voice nothing more than a ghost of a sound.
My hand lifted instinctively, my fingers reaching out to brush a stray lock of hair away from her forehead.
I wanted to feel the warmth of her skin, to ground myself in the reality of her being here.
But I stopped inches away. I pulled my hand back, clenching it into a fist before dragging my fingers through my own damp hair instead.
"Don’t be stupid, Clinton," I muttered to myself. "Don’t be that guy."
Her question from earlier echoed in my mind, mocking .
"Have you thought about having romantic feelings for soone else?"
I let out a quiet, bitter scoff, shaking my head at the ceiling. "Yeah, right," I mumbled. As if that were even a remote possibility. As if my heart hadn’t been hardwired to her frequency for a while now.
I stood up abruptly, needing to break the spell. I walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows, staring out at the jagged skyline of Manhattan.
My thoughts were a riot, a jagged ss of longing and resentnt.
"She’s still with him," I reminded myself, the words a jagged pill I had to swallow every day. "She chose him."
I turned back to look at her. She shifted under the light, her cardigan slipping off one shoulder. She looked cold.
I walked to the linen closet in the hallway, grabbed a plush cashre throw blanket, and returned to the couch. I draped it over her with agonizing slowness, making sure it covered her feet. My fingers lingered for just a second too long near her shoulder, and the temptation to lean down and press a single, chaste kiss to her forehead was almost overwhelming. It would have been so easy. She would never have known.
"You are going to be the end of , Octavia," I whispered.
"I ant what I said," I mumbled into the darkness, my eyes fixed on her silhouette. "I’m still in love with you."
I paused, listening to the soft, rhythmic sound of her breathing. It was the only thing that kept grounded.
"And that’s exactly why I won’t touch you tonight."
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