CERCI LANNISTER and WES–GEORGE CLEMENT -1
CERCI:
I closed the door behind me and collapsed against it, my breath coming in ragged gasps, heart pounding against my ribs like a caged animal seeking escape.
“Dear God,” I whispered, dropping my towel and rushing to the bathroom. I turned the shower to its coldest setting, desperate to cool the fire coursing through my veins. My skin hummed with an awareness that no amount of cold water could extinguish.
As icy droplets cascaded over my flushed skin, I shivered–both from the cold and from the images seared into my consciousness. Twice now I’d glimpsed into their intimate world, and the effect was devastating. The raw passion between them had awakened. something primal within me–two powerful men surrendering completely to desire, uninhibited and unapologetic in their hunger for each other.
I closed my eyes, only to see Bernard’s face in ecstasy–his usual control abandoned, head thrown back, throat exposed as George claimed him with possessive intensity. The memory of George approaching the door afterward, magnificent in his nakedness, holding my gaze with those penetrating green eyes–not a hint of embarrassment, but rather a challenge that made my knees weak.
“Stop thinking about it,” I commanded myself, tilting my face directly into the frigid stream. But my body betrayed me, nipples hardening against the cold, heat pooling low in my abdomen despite the icy cascade.
I turned off the water and stepped onto the plush bath mat, droplets tracing paths down my collarbone and over my breasts. The mirror reflected my flushed skin, eyes bright with an emotion I refused to name.
“What are you doing, Cerci?” I whispered, pressing my palms against my burning cheeks.
Bernard’s marriage proposal still echoed in my mind–absurd, unexpected, yet strangely tempting in its promise of security. But I wasn’t about to marry a man I barely knew, especially one whose heart clearly belonged to another. Throughout my life, I’d learned that self–reliance was the only guarantee.
“I’m just the housekeeper,” I reminded my reflection firmly, gathering my damp hair into a
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CERCI LANNISTER and WES–GEORGE CLEMENT -1
simple ponytail.
The clock read 12:47 a.m. They would likely be asleep for hours, giving me time to complete my duties without disturbing them–without facing those knowing eyes that seemed to see straight through my carefully constructed defenses.
In the laundry room, a blue basket overflowed with their discarded clothing. I sorted everything meticulously, trying not to imagine their bodies beneath these fabrics, trying to ignore the lingering scent of Bernard’s cologne on his shirts, the subtle musk that clung to George’s undershirts.
As I worked through the night, transforming their space back to immaculate condition, my thoughts kept returning to them. There was something magnetic about their relationship–the perfect balance of dominance and surrender I’d witnessed. More than just physical attraction; a profound connection that made my chest ache with longing.
By dawn, only their bedroom remained untouched–a boundary I wasn’t prepared to cross. Instead, I channeled my energy into preparing breakfast, hoping the gesture might soften any awkwardness from our previous encounter, might communicate what I couldn’t express in words.
As I arranged the food with artistic precision, I allowed myself one forbidden thought: what would it feel like to be caught between them, to be the focus of that intense passion I’d witnessed? The possibility sent a tremor through me that had nothing to do with
exhaustion.
GEORGE:
“George,” Bernard groaned as my alarm shattered our peaceful cocoon. He rolled away, burying his face in the pillow. “Silence that thing before I throw it out the damn window!”
His morning grumpiness always amused me. I reached for my phone, silencing the persistent chime. 6:10 a.m. glowed accusingly.
“What would you like for breakfast?” I asked, knowing Bernard well enough to predict he wouldn’t stay in bed long. My gaze traveled appreciatively over his form–the sheet barely draped across the curve of his lower back, revealing the constellation of marks I’d left on his skin during the night.
“Anything,” he mumbled into the pillow.
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“Leek and truffle risotto with shiitake mushrooms it is, then,” I replied with feigned. seriousness, reaching for my jeans while admiring the tantalizing view of his naked body sprawled across our bed.
He rolled over, opening one skeptical eye. The last time he’d carelessly said “anything, I’d made exactly that elaborate dish and watched him struggle to appreciate it at dawn..
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