Restless
He wonders if the ethereal night dress is something she wears often. It floats around her weightlessly, frilly lace edges brushing against the tops of her thighs. It’s something out of time, an angelic relic from a sepia toned past.
His fingers are damp against the binoculars, faintly sweaty palms telling a tale he’s been trying to ignore for too damn long. He should put them away, snap them back into their case and move on to the next nightly stop But there’s something about the way she’s standing, palms up in silent supplication, face upturned toward the full moon.
Softly he huffs out an irritated grunt, his nostrils flaring as an unwanted warmth tingles in the pit of his stomach. He can see how smooth her skin is, even from so far away, glistening in the humidity. His fingers twitch, the muscles of his jaw tightening as he clenches his teeth. He needs to leave.
Suddenly the wind whips up, plastering the dress to her body, a soft shadow at the vee of her thighs drawing his gaze. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to uncloud his mind. It’s dizzying, the unexpected wave of longing he feels for her.
He drops the binoculars, blinking away the sensuous image of her beckoning him, her parted lips releasing a muted sigh. This heat wave his getting to him, primal urges rising up through his body, heart pounding like a war drum.
He turns away, grabbing his patrol bag and slinging it over his shoulder with a little more force than necessary. It’s the heat that has him all riled up, the oven-like temperature of the swirling night air. He feels restless in his own skin, the flack jacket strapped to his chest suddenly heavy and oppressive, everything is just too close.
He’s wound tight on the way to his next stop, every sound in the shadows making him tense. A rat scurries from beneath a precariously stacked pile of trash and his pistol is out, safety off, finger on the trigger before he even realizes what he’s doing.
He tucks it back under his jacket, marveling at how he almost spattered rodent all over the side of the street. He’s not normally trigger happy, in spite of what his detractors might say. Bullets should never be wasted, they draw too much attention.
He decides to pack it in early tonight, turning on his heel to head home. This restless energy needs to be spent, and hitting the makeshift gym in his rathole of a hideout seems like the best way to end the night.
Hours later, he’s sweaty and sore, his lungs burning from intensive calisthenics. He should be exhausted, in for a night of dead sleep, but he still feels like he drank a gallon of coffee, heart jumping in his chest, an unnamable urge still settled in the pit of his stomach.
He tosses his sweat soaked workout clothes to the floor, moving toward his bathroom. He should probably run the water cold tonight, for obvious reasons, but his screaming muscles beg for the comfort of a hot shower, and the last thing he needs is to be more awake. So he lets it run hot, steam filling the tiny bathroom, condensation collecting on all the flat surfaces.
The water pounds against his back, heat penetrating deep down until he can feel it in his bones. His eyes drift shut, tendrils of drowsiness creeping in.
Dropping his guard is a mistake, the first thing appearing behind his eyes the image of Karen alone on the building, nightdress plastered to her lithe body.
Only this time he isn’t simply a voyeur. She knows he’s looking down, and her hands drift across her body, lightly skimming over her breasts, nipples erect and visible through the thin fabric. She catches the hem in her hand, tugging the garment up until her creamy thighs are completely exposed.
Frank’s breathing hitches. It’s so real, the way her mouth drops open, a faint little whimper of desire issuing from her vocal chords as her hand the little mound of soft curls, fingers finding their way into the slippery cleft.
Her eyes drift shut, and it’s a cue. Taking himself in hand, he strokes in time to her movements, his gaze flickering between the expressions of pleasure on her face and the movements of her hands.
She’s flushed, cheeks pink with arousal, blood rushing to the surface of her skin as her breathing becomes ragged. Frank feels so close, a sweet pleasure just on the periphery of his consciousness. He reaches for it, watching the way the muscles in her abdomen clench, the way she shudders against her own stroking fingers. It is like death, the look of absolute pleasure on her face so close to that of pain.
He dies right along with her, spasms of pleasure shaking his body, hot proof of his activity spilling out against the palm of his hand even as the water washes it away.
He opens his eyes, inches away from the cracked tile, brought back to this awful reality. He’s angry with himself, for doing that to her, for using her image in that way. “Fuck.”
It’s a curse softly whispered, turning back into the hot spray of the shower. He’s a man, he supposes, with needs like any other. But damn it, it still feels like a violation.
She deserves to be more than a player in some juvenile fantasy. He resolves not to be such a creep in the future. If he wants to check up on her, he’ll do the gentlemanly thing and knock on her damn door after sweeping the blocks around her building.
He’s surprised by the thought, a little thrill of fear zipping through him. He snorts in amusement. Imagine that, Frank Castle afraid of a willowy blonde. He supposes stranger things have happened, even if he can’t think of them.