Page 7 of No One But Me
That was the difference.
The memory shifted. Earlier. The moment she'd frozen.
I hadn't moved. Hadn't made a sound. But something in her had known—the way animals sensed weather changes, pressure dropping before the storm.
Her shoulders had gone still first. Then her breathing. She'd turned slowly toward the alley window, coat half-buttoned, one hand clutching fabric at her throat.
Not frightened. Alert.
Eyes narrowed. Searching the darkness for shape, for confirmation, for whatever her instincts had already told her was there.
No scream. No panic. Just that steady, measuring look—the same one she'd given me a year ago when I'd cornered her at the gala and she'd realized charm wouldn't work.
Fear was easy. Awareness was rare.
I finished the scotch I'd sworn I wouldn't drink. Told myself I'd been checking in. Curious. Making sure she was managing after her father's mess hit the public records—debts and liens and the kind of financial bleeding that ended in foreclosure. Told myself I'd moved on.
The glass hit the counter harder than I'd intended. The crack echoed through the empty house, sharp and final.
None of it was true.
I'd stood in that alley because I wanted to see her when she thought no one was looking. Wanted to confirm what I'd known since the first time she'd laughed at someone else's joke and ignored mine completely.
Belle Reiss didn't perform.
Which meant when I finally made her look at me—really look—it would be real.
The glass was cold against my forehead. I didn’t realize I’d pressed against it until my breath fogged the surface, obscuring the black water beyond.
My body reacted before my mind gave permission. Heat pooled low, heavy and insistent. The memory of her tonight—coat half-buttoned, throat exposed, that split second where she’d known—flashed behind my eyes.
A year ago, she’d laughed at someone else’s joke. Not mine. Not the carefully polished line I’d delivered with the right smile, the right timing, the right amount of charm. She’d turned those eyes on me, considered, and dismissed me without a word.
No apology. No softening. No performance.
Just indifference.
Like I was any other man in a room full of them.
That memory hit harder than the sight of her tonight, alone in that dim-lit store, her guard slipping just enough to show the woman beneath the careful mask.
Fuck.
I wanted her.
Not the way I’d wanted others—quick, easy, forgotten by morning. I wanted to unravel her. Wanted to see that composure crack, to hear her voice break, to know I was the one who’d finally made her react.
My cock hardened, pressing against my zipper. The ache was sharp, insistent. I imagined her in that alley, back against the brick, my hands pinning her wrists above her head. Not gentle. Not patient. Just force and heat and the sound of her breath hitching because she had no choice but to feel it.
She’d know then.
She’d know what she did to me.
The glass creaked under my weight. I didn’t move. Didn’t adjust. Let the discomfort ground me, remind me this wasn’t about control—it was about proof.
I’d make her look at me.
And when she did, she’d never look away again.
