IMAGINES: Celebrity Encounters Starring You (33 page)

The street is quiet and the sinking sun casts an eerie witching-hour light over the tops of the expensive parked cars that squeeze together along the edges of the pavement. A noise behind you startles you, making you realize that you’re still tense and on edge. You suck in a deep breath before turning round slowly, and then exhaling. It’s just Doodles, the Smarts’ cat, fighting with a plastic bag full of leaves.

There’s no sign of him, your
stalker
, and the quick beat of your heart slows down just a little.

You wonder where he went.

Dinner?

A pint of Guinness at the Iron Dog? It was only over on the next street after all. . . .

In any case, your little frisson with
Jamie Dornan, Celebrity Train Stalker
, is finished. It was fun while it lasted. Though your body has relaxed a little, the little forbidden ball of sexual tension that builds up whenever you think about him doesn’t dispel—it continues to send pulses out into your blood and to your nerve endings.

The house is in complete darkness as you approach. Climbing the steps up to the front door, you see immediately that they’ve been cleared of the leaves from the overgrown oak tree that curtains the garden.
So he did exactly what he promised.
It makes you smile.

“Just enjoy your me-free day. I’ll entertain myself,” he’d told
you this morning. “Then I’ll do all the things I promised you I’d do,” he’d said with a small tilt of his mouth. You’d raised your eyebrow questioningly, and he had pretended to look offended. “Baby, you’d be so bloody impressed by how much I get done when you’re not here distracting me.” By that you were sure he meant as soon as you’d left, he’d reach for the remote and turn on the football match he’d recorded.

That morning he’d stretched out toward you and given you one of his distractingly perfect smiles and a glimpse of his distractingly perfect—naked—body under the brilliant white sheets of the bed.

“I love that dress on you,” he’d whispered as he kissed his way up your arm.

You’d smiled. “I know. That’s why I’m wearing it today. So you’ll think about me in it and miss me more.”

He’d narrowed his eyes and pulled you down to meet his mouth, sliding his tongue against your own, a deep kindling kiss that always left you aching for more. “I always think about you and I always miss you when you’re not with me. Now go before I peel you out of this and make your me-free day something else altogether.”

Right now the house is quiet, but feels filled with the sensation of something tense and electric as you close the door and lock the night air behind you. As you move through the space, you think you feel his eyes on you again, but it’s just your husband’s scent filling the air. His personality and style is stamped on every inch of the home the two of you have made together. Touches of him are in the colors you’ve chosen, and touches of you are in the furnishings you bought together. You place his beer in the fridge, pour yourself a large glass of the rich dark wine, and drape the sweater over the dining chair so he’ll see it when he gets home. You check your phone to see if there’s any message
from him, either apologizing or saying where he’d gone and whether you should eat without him, but it’s not like you’re hungry, anyway. Wine and a bath is what you need to ease away some of the tension until he gets home. You leave your phone downstairs because you don’t want to be disturbed, but also in case you find yourself tempted to google Jamie Dornan again, specifically to see if anyone spotted him on the Central line or following some woman around Holland Park.

As the lavender scent rises from the steam, you sip on the wine and rest the glass on the edge of the bath. Still, the steam does nothing to ease the heat in your body, heat that has partly to do with how today’s sun seeped into your bones, but is mainly to do with
him
. You wonder why he didn’t follow you after the store. Were you supposed to do something else? Act differently? Maybe you
were
supposed to turn around and act like you didn’t know him? Is that what he wanted you to do? You turn off the taps and leave the bath to cool slightly, walking back to the bedroom to undress.

The movement is almost completely soundless as you sense someone behind you. You manage a small, short gasp of shock, and your body freezes instinctively as he slides a hand over your mouth and pulls you tight into his body.

“Don’t scream,” he says quietly, pressing his lips to your neck. You know it’s him immediately, you’d know his voice anywhere. You can taste the salt from his fingers on your lips.

“Breathe, just breathe. I’m not going to hurt you,” he tells you in that soft promising tone, and your eyes close in bliss.

You let out a deep breath like he ordered you to. Maybe you should be afraid. Maybe you should fight him a little. Maybe that’s what he wants? Part of you wants to fight him and live the fantasy of him taking you like this, but the other part of you wants to give yourself over to him completely. He places another
soft kiss to the column of your neck, the place where your husband liked to kiss too.

This isn’t your husband.

“I’m going to take my hand away. Don’t make a sound,” he commands before slowly unwrapping his fingers from your mouth. The saltiness of his skin stings your tongue and lips, and the saliva rushes to meet it.

“How did you get in here?” you ask, panting slightly.

He chuckles softly, grazing his mouth back and forth across the column of your throat, his thick facial hair taunting your hypersensitive skin.

“Why aren’t you afraid?” he replies instead, that familiar Irish lilt you know so well washing over you.

“Should I be afraid?” Of course you know you should be. And if this were anyone but him, you know you would be. Yet the only thing you feel right now is excitement—dangerous, intoxicating excitement.

He lowers his hand to your neck and applies the tiniest fraction of pressure around your throat. A soft possessive tightening.

“Hmmm, let’s see. . . . A man follows you home, breaks into your house through a downstairs window, and now has his hand around your throat. Why w
ouldn’t
you be afraid?” He makes a soft moaning noise in the back of his throat, and something warm floods between your legs.

“You don’t scare me,” you tell him defiantly.

“So brave, baby, so bloody brave.” It’s a statement. Both awe and desire are in his tone. “How do you feel, then? Am I everything you imagined?” His soft, hot whisper clenches your insides.

You manage to say, “Jamie, please . . .”

“Please what?” He sounds sadistic now, and you know why. Because playing this role comes naturally for him. Because he’s talented. You know this.

“You’re too good,” you moan as you push back against his body, desperate for his touch, feeling starved of him yet consumed by him. This has gone on too long now.

“I’m a work in progress.” He chuckles, and you feel his mouth on the crook of your shoulder, his tongue flicking and his lips sucking and nipping. When you feel his teeth bite at your skin, your legs weaken slightly.

“You really broke in through the window?” You want to laugh at the thought of that, but you don’t because it would ruin this . . . moment. As twisted as it might be,
you’re enjoying it.
As is he—the heat and hardness of his body confirm that. The room is filled with the scent of lavender and the spice of his cologne and the heat of both his and your desire.

You hear the smile in his voice as he says, “Nah, it was open,” and his hands travel up the back of your dress and under it. His fingers graze across the small of your back and the base of your spine, feather-light touches that you’d fantasized about as he followed you home.

This is supposed to feel wrong. This isn’t your husband.

“How long did you follow me for?” you ask, wondering only now if it had been before the train.

“After the massage.”

Your body tightens deliciously. “Then you’re very good at this. . . .”

You want to see him now, touch him now, and as you try to turn your body, you think for a moment that he isn’t going to let you, but then his grip loosens and he twists you around to face him. His eyes are dark with a desire you recognize, and he runs his tongue slowly over his bottom lip as he stares deep into your eyes.

“Christ . . . you’re so bloody beautiful,” he whispers.

You drop your eyes to his perfect pink mouth. “My husband will be home soon.” You purse your lips to hide a smile.

“You think I could take him?”

When you look up, the look in his eyes turns wicked.

You pretend to think about it. “Not sure, he’s strong and very protective, possessive too. He’d probably kill you for this.”

His gaze changes, softening slightly for a moment, but then the other look comes back across his eyes—dark and hot, and almost dangerous. Christ, he really is so good at this.
Too
good.

“Then we better be quick about it.” He smirks and lowers his gaze down your body.

As he does, you take in every inch of his face, the soft, unruly curls on his head, the light faded scar on his forehead that he picked up as a child, the long Grecian nose, twice broken, which now sits slightly to the right, the perfect cut of his beard that he says his face looks weird without.

As he walks you backward toward the bed and pushes you down onto it, he shakes his head. “This dress looks perfect from every angle, you know,” he tells you quietly as his hands come to the buckle of his jeans. As they do, the silver of his wedding band glints in the dim light of your bedroom.

The same wedding band that you’d put on his finger two years ago.

You smile. “Mmm . . . well, my husband likes it.”

T
here’s a steady knocking at your door, but instead of answering, you snuggle further into the warmth of your covers, the blankets twisting around your feet. You know who it is, but as the knocking persists, you cover your head with a pillow and groan in irritation.
Just one more hour,
you think. Last night you were up binge-watching Netflix, and the last thing you want is an early-morning wake-up call.

But you need to get up because you don’t get to see him a lot, and it’s been months since the last time you properly hung out. And besides, the last time you both were way too drunk to remember, and then way too hungover to function the next day. Slowly, you roll over and open your eyes, squinting against the bright morning light. The knock comes again, this time a little louder. With a sigh, you pull yourself out of bed and pad over to the door, the hardwood floor cold against your feet. Normally you wouldn’t have locked your bedroom door, but after a few rather chilling episodes of
Criminal Minds
you can’t help but want to feel as safe as possible, especially when living by yourself.

When you finally open the door, he’s waiting outside, a bouquet of flowers in one hand and a box of your favorite chocolates in the other.

“Happy birthday!” he shouts, his familiar voice instantly bringing a smile to your face.

You don’t give him time to react as you throw your arms around him and pull him into a much-needed hug. After months of not seeing each other it feels amazing to have him here today, of all days. “I told you not to come, but now that you did, I’m rather happy,” you tell him with a laugh, pulling away to get a good look at his face.

The scruff on his chin is longer than usual, and his bright orange hair is just as messy as always. Although his eyes seem more gray than blue today, he still looks like the same boy you grew up beside. The same boy that you spent almost every single birthday with until he went on tour and left for months on end. The same boy you still call your best friend, even though you barely get to see him anymore.

“I couldn’t miss another birthday. I felt terrible last year, honest,” Ed tells you, his lips forming a small frown.

You were never mad at Ed for missing your birthday last year. He’s freaking Ed Sheeran, for God’s sake. He has better places to be. For as long as you’ve known him, his dream has been to perform and make people happy, so there’s no way you could ever be mad at him for missing your birthday to do what he loves. Of course it’s not the same without him, but you would never hold that against him.

“I think you can let go now, mate,” Ed says with a laugh, your arms loosening around his neck. “Anyway, we have a busy day, and if you stand here and hug me any longer, we won’t get much done.”

You finally release Ed, a permanent smile plastered across your face. As much as you didn’t want to wake up, now that you have, you’re happy.

He smiles. “Get ready and then we can get going.”

Nodding, you go back into your bedroom and get prepped for the day. You don’t know what’s in store, so you put on something casual and fuss with your hair just a little and brush your teeth. By the time you’re ready, Ed is in the kitchen cooking eggs and sausage, your favorite breakfast foods.

“So what’s on the agenda for today?” you ask, sitting down in front of a plate of steaming-hot food.

“Well, I was hoping we could have a little jam session before my show tonight.”

You know that he feels guilty about having a show on your birthday, but you couldn’t be happier. The last time you went to one of his shows you had a fantastic time, and since he’s playing in London, you won’t even have to go far. You nod to say yes and dig into the goodness, eating every last bite that Ed has prepared. Afterward, you lead him into the small room you’ve dedicated to your love of music.

Ed notices the dust that has started to collect on your favorite acoustic guitar—the one he got you for your sixteenth birthday. “You haven’t been in here for a while.” His fingers run over the strings, the noise echoing through the room.

“Nursing school keeps me busy.”

Over the past years you questioned why you’d chosen nursing school over music. As children, you and Ed were constantly singing or playing any kind of instrument you could get your hands on. Choir was never enough time to sing. Your parents would take turns having the two of you over because the constant stream of singing and music was enough to drive any parent crazy. Ed would write the songs because he was simply an incredible writer, and you would come up with the harmonies. You two were inseparable when it came to music, until Ed went off to London while you finished up with school.