RUBY

By the time I get home from work it’s almost two in the morning. The condo is quiet. I assume Bancroft is asleep. As I head for bed I nearly bypass my own room and keep going to his. That would be a colossally embarrassing mistake.

For the first time since he left on his trip I sleep in the spare bedroom that’s supposed to be mine. It feels really strange.

Bancroft is walking around the apartment in a pair of boxers.

Aside from the boxers he’s naked. No shirt. No socks. Just boxers. And for some reason they’re all wet and clinging to him. I don’t know why he’s wet, but I offer to help him out of his soggy underwear, dripping on the floor, making a messy puddle around his feet. I reach for the waistband aware I seem to be going against my own plan not to sleep with him, and watch goose bumps rise along his skin. Just as I pull them over his hips I wake up.

So much sadness.

The dream fades away and all I’m left with is dry mouth and zinging clit. I reach for the glass on the nightstand, but it’s empty. It’s four in the morning. I’ve only been asleep for an hour. I don’t remember finishing it off before I fell asleep. I do, however, remember rolling my marble while shoving my face in my pillow to thoughts of Bancroft before I passed out. The extra exertion probably didn’t help with my thirst issues. I also have a headache, possibly from being underhydrated. Diva told me to drink more water last night, but it must not have been enough.

I throw off the covers and hoist myself out of bed. I grab the bottle of aspirin tucked into my nightstand and my glass and make the trek to the kitchen—the built-in water dispenser in the fridge provides the best, most amazing cold water ever. Which is what I need right now.

I lean my head against the fridge as I wait for the glass to fill, down two aspirin with the water, then fill the glass again before I head back to bed with my eyes half-closed.

I slide under the now cool sheets—which makes me shiver a little—and rest my cheek against the pillow. Closing my eyes, I try to bring back the dream I was having before thirst woke me. I go back to the beginning, where he must have been dressed, because I’m a big fan of taking him from a suit to his birthday suit in my head. I imagine the way Bancroft—Bane—looks in his button-down with his tie hanging loose. Or his snug-fitting undershirt.

As I mentally undress him in my mind I can suddenly smell him. I must be on the verge of dreaming again because it’s incredibly vivid. I snuggle deeper into the pillow, willing my mind to go where my body would like to. I hear a groan, low and deep and then the bed shifts and a heavy arm comes thudding down on my hip.

My eyes pop open. What the hell? This is definitely not a dream. At least I don’t think it is. The bed shifts. Nope. Not a dream. Who the hell is in bed with me? The sheets rustle and the mattress dips as the hand attached to the arm that’s resting on my hip starts moving up my body.

“Mmm. This feels nice,” comes the mumbled, male voice that belongs to the hand exploring me over the blanket.

Holy shit. Bane is in bed with me. What is Bane doing in bed with me?

I’m frozen, sort of. I mean, I’m not really sure what I should do, because as much as I’m enjoying being felt up—even through the covers—I’m still really confused as to why exactly this has happened. Or how.

Suddenly Bane’s very fit, very warm chest is pressed against my back. And wait. Oh my God. Oh my God. Is that . . . it can’t be. Oh yes. It is.

Bane is naked. How do I know this? Because I can feel him against my lower back where my sleep tank has ridden up, leaving several inches of skin exposed. And his erection—his very hard, ample erection—is pressed right up against me. My theory on big hands is definitely true.

He nuzzles into my hair, burrowing his way through it until his stubbly chin rubs against my neck. I don’t think he’s actually awake. So I stay still, waiting for him to . . . I don’t know . . . stop moving around? I just need him to settle and then I can figure out what I should do. Well, I know what I should do, but I’m enjoying this a little too much at the moment.

He doesn’t settle, though. Instead, he adjusts the comforter so the hand that was exploring over the top is now exploring underneath. His arm comes around my waist, and then his warm fingers slide under the hem of my tank and splay across my stomach, moving up. He gets stuck at the elastic-y built-in bra and drags the fabric up.

He cups one of my boobs through several layers of cotton and groans. I barely restrain my own when he rolls his hips.

I open my mouth to say something, like maybe; “Hey, Bane. Why are you in my bed, feeling me up?” Or; “If you wanted to get your freak on with me, there are better, less awkward ways than creeping into my bed in the middle of the night and surprising me.” Or even; “Mind if I check out how generous that stick is jabbing into my low back?”

But none of those things come out of my mouth. Instead all I do is whisper-moan Bancroft.

It doesn’t seem to have an impact on the breast palming. In fact, he’s gone from palming to kneading. He makes a second attempt to get under the elastic with a grunt.

I should stop this. My brain registers this thought and immediately wants to dismiss it as unnecessary.

I really should do something apart from lie here, because this shouldn’t be happening in the middle of the night without some kind of adult discussion in which we weigh the consequences of me living in his house, being his pet sitter, and getting a little screw in on the side. Especially since he’s mentioned he’s not interested in getting into a relationship while he’s doing all this traveling. But since I’ve been fantasizing about the exact scenario, I’m a little too willing to let it go on for a little while longer.

This time he makes it under the elastic, his wide, warm palm curving around my breast. And then I feel his hot breath on my neck, followed by his lips on my skin. Oh Jesus, is he going to, oh no . . . oh yes . . . he rolls my nipples between his thumb and finger, his groan vibrating against me as his lips part and his tongue sweeps across my skin.

Okay, at this point I have zero good excuses for not saying something to stop him since he’s still obviously not quite conscious. And instead of doing the one thing I should, I arch and press my butt against his erection. It nestles all snug along the cleft of my ass—my underwear are clearly barring the way, although they’re not full coverage, so I can feel a lot of skin on skin. With a final, rough nipple twist he abandons my breast and his palm moves heavily down my stomach.

My eyes go wide as I realize he has a destination in mind. I would like to say my next action is a result of my acknowledging that this has gone too far. However, it has more to do with the fact that I think I need to shave my nether regions. I grab his hand just as it passes my navel. “Whoa!” I rasp-yell.

That seems to startle him out of whatever semi-sleep-induced lust-haze he’s in. His hand retracts and he rolls over as I jump out of the bed.

And that’s when I realize I’m not in my bedroom. I’m in his.

“I just—I didn’t—I made—” I’m flailing around like an idiot as a very sleep-bleary Bancroft blinks at me with confusion. God he’s sexy when he’s just woken up. My eyes follow his hand, which is smoothing down his stomach. And that’s when I take note that the sheets have abandoned his glorious body. He’s so naked. And I can see every inch of him. Well, apart from his right thigh.

Bancroft shirtless is a vision. Bancroft naked is damn well fucking phenomenal.

“Oh God, that is huge!” I say when I finally reach the visual destination of Erectiontopia.

It’s not completely dark in here, thanks to the night owls of the city who are awake in the buildings across the street. I can see very clearly how ample his erection truly is. And I’m definitely gawking. In my defense, there’s quite a lot to gawk at. My mouth is actually watering, it looks that amazing.

Prior to this moment I’ve never really been all that impressed with a penis. If there were a penis rating system, Bancroft’s would be in a class all its own. Now part of this may be due to the amazing shadows cast over his naked body by the ambient lighting. It may in part be due to the entire package framing the penis I’m currently staring at.

I scan his naked body, wishing like hell for a photographic memory, because his body is a gift from the heavens. And that erection is magnificent.

On a scale of one to ten, with one being depressingly inadequate and ten being deity inspiring, his dick is so beautiful it would make angels weep and virgins offer themselves up for sacrifice. Okay, maybe not that last part. But it’s a gorgeous penis and I’m really, really turned on.

Now I want to get back under those sheets with him and pretend I didn’t just accidentally crawl into his bed and let him feel me up, for quite a lengthy amount of time.

“Ruby?” He pulls a sheet up to cover his junk. “What’re you—” He looks me over. His hand is resting on his erection. Cradling it. That could’ve been me if I’d been smart enough to keep up the ruse.

I try to cover myself, because my choice of sleep outfit doesn’t leave all that much to the imagination. Well, more than Bane’s obviously, but it’s still pretty skimpy.

“It was an accident! Sorry!” I spin around and sprint to the door, slamming it behind me. I run all the way down the hall to my bedroom, being much more careful about closing the door this time. And of course, I lock it. My embarrassment is so huge—bigger even than the cock I was just staring at—and there is no way I can face Bane right now.