13. Kelley
13
KELLEY
G od, this is torture.
As usual, I’m left trembling, my breath the only sound in yet another room as he turns his back to me. I want to scream, to grab him and pull him back here. Instead, I watch his form shift into the darkness, me a mess with a mess at my feet.
I find my knees buckling under the confusion and with my bare bottom on the cold kitchen floor, I struggle to find a breath.
Is he like this with everyone? Or just me?
My mind reels as I set my back against the cabinets, banging my head against the scene of his latest hit and run.
I'm not sure which possibility hurts more — that his teasing touches and fleeting kisses are meaningless games he plays with all his captives, or that this twisted dance is something special just between us.
My fingers dig into the grout between the tiles, seeking purchase as my mind spins. He invaded my space so easily again, toying with me both physically and mentally. And the worst part is, my traitorous body responds every time, even when my rational mind screams no.
I hate how he gets under my skin. How he turns my anger into unwilling lust with just a grazing touch. How he chips away at my resolve with his knowing smiles and hooded glances.
Even in his absence, my skin still burns everywhere he made contact with it. I shudder, hugging myself tightly. But it does nothing to ward off the desire he stokes within me.
I force myself to stand on shaky legs. To take deep breaths. To regain some scrap of composure after he ripped it away so easily. I stagger back to my room, my mind and body at war.
Filling the tub with steaming water, I submerge myself in an attempt to cleanse away the night's events. The warmth envelops me, but the heat only serves to remind me of Jackson's proximity moments ago.
As I bathe, memories of Jackson's deliberate touch flash through my mind. My hand moves instinctively, a fleeting touch that sparks a rush of heat, but I recoil, my rational mind slamming the door on my desires. I chastise myself for even entertaining the thought, cursing Jackson's influence over me.
Yet even as I internally admonish my body's sinful reactions, my traitorous mind continues to wander...
I picture Jackson's strong hands splayed across my hips, gripping possessively. Recall the feeling of his hard chest pressed against my back as he crowded me against the counter. The way his breath tickled my neck when he leaned in close, his proximity a silent threat veiled in temptation.
My own hands trace aimless patterns beneath the water as I sink deeper into the tub, immersed in the sensual memories I wish I could wash away. But they cling to me like suds, perfumed reminders I cannot ignore.
The heat between my legs rivals that of the bathwater. My nails dig into my thighs, punishment for the insistent ache Jackson has stoked there. But pain and pleasure intermingle until I can't tell up from down anymore.
With a strangled cry, I slip below the surface, holding my breath until my lungs burn. Emerging with a gasp, I push wet hair from my eyes and stare desperately at my wrinkled fingers. If only pruned skin could so easily dampen desire.
I swallow hard and climb out of the tub on shaky legs. Dressing quickly, I avoid my gaze in the fogged mirror. I know if I look too closely, I'll see the flames still dancing in my eyes. The involuntary hunger Jackson has awakened within me - a ravenous beast I try in vain to tame.
Crawling into bed, I toss and turn beneath the cool sheets. But there is no rest for the weak, and I've never felt more feeble and defenseless than in this moment. When my own body betrays me so sweetly.
I should despise his touch. Should hate the way he toys with me. Yet even now, I find myself craving it. Aching for his hands, his lips...him.
I grind my thighs together beneath the covers, seeking friction, then still myself as realization dawns - I'm already deeply under Jackson's spell. And the most terrifying part is I'm no longer certain I want to break it.
He wields pleasure like a weapon. And no matter how I steel myself, I'm terrified one day I'll shatter under that exquisite barrage. Give in to him completely. The thought keeps me up at night — which only provides more hours for him to invade my thoughts and set my body aflame.
I'm caught in his web and I fear there's no escape. No matter how I rationalize and resist, deep down I know I'm already his.
By the next day, I long to see his face. But his servants will hardly look me in the eye, let alone tell me anything about him.
“Have you seen him this morning?” I ask, strutting around in a fresh shirt and pair of his slacks. I've fashioned them into a high-waisted sleek garment, I can’t wait to see his face. I wonder if he’ll be angry, and if his way of punishing me for this act of defiance will be as fun as last night.
“I’m sorry miss,” the sour-faced attendant sweeping the floor says. Like the butler and the chef, no one has a story to tell about the man they work for. Only loyalty.
I’m hit with the unexpected realization that Jackson is absent, his presence now a conspicuous void that I can't seem to ignore, even as I tell myself his whereabouts are of no concern to me.
The maids move silently through their duties, a vigilant yet unobtrusive presence in the mansion. I watch them with a detached curiosity, my thoughts inadvertently drifting back to Jackson.
Where is he? The question invades my mind like an insistent mosquito. I bat it away, irritated at myself. I should relish these precious hours of solitude, the reprieve from his watchful eye and roaming hands.
Yet as the day unfolds, my awareness of his absence only grows, a nagging sensation I resent yet can't seem to shake off. I wander the cavernous halls aimlessly, suddenly feeling out of place without him here.
In the library, I trail my fingers along the spines of books, unable to focus on the words before me. Memories of our heated kisses in the kitchen haunt me. I linger by the pool, haunted by visions of his powerful strokes cutting through the chlorine-scented water.
At breakfast, I stare numbly at the empty seat at the head of the table, the one he occupies every morning like a throne. The staff maintain their professional facade, but I see the questions swirling behind their eyes.
Where is Mr. Corel? Why is he not home?
I echo their unspoken curiosity, though I plaster on a mask of indifference. I struggle against the rising tide of my thoughts, each recollection of Jackson pushed away with a well-rehearsed litany of denial.
He means nothing to me. I feel nothing for him. His absence brings only relief.
But the words ring hollow even in my head. My carefully crafted defenses are slowly being chiseled away by this place, by him. I'm forced to admit, if only to myself, that I long for his presence. I crave the spark that flashes between us - even when masked by disdain.
I've memorized every sculpted plane of his face, and can perfectly envision the way one corner of his mouth quirks up right before he teases me. My dreams provide no respite, only visions of his lips on mine, his hands claiming my body.
As night falls, I stand alone on the balcony, inhaling the jasmine-scented air. The stars above mirror the pinpricks of light in the surrounding homes. Only this mansion remains dark, cold, and empty. My prison never felt so lonely before.