Obey Him
Lex
A light touch on my shoulder startles me. The flight attendant stands beside me, waiting patiently as I blink out of my daze. “Tray table, please, miss.”
Shit. When did they announce the landing?
My ears pop from the pressure change, and I realize I’ve been so deep in thoughts of Adrian that I’ve lost twenty minutes.
Heat crawls up my neck—embarrassment, frustration, or maybe both. Sitting up, I smooth out my pants and hurriedly put my Kindle and headphones in my backpack. Only now do I recognize the feeling of dropping altitude as the pressure in my ears builds and pops. The plane touches down, the surrounding people clap, and I stifle the eye roll and groan—landing is the goal. It’s not like the pilot did a double-barrel roll on the way in. When the doors open, I rise and leave the plane, immediately hit by the thick Floridian air. I’ve missed the heat and sunshine. I turn off airplane mode, watching the signal bars blink to life. One message. Juliana, checking that I’ve landed.
Nothing from Adrian, of course. Not that he could text me—he doesn’t even have my number. Still, the disappointment is undeniable and absurd. Ten minutes later, I’m outside the terminal in the pickup line. I tilt my head back and relish the feeling of the warm sun on my face and the sway of palm trees that scattered the airport property. I can’t blame her for moving here; it’s so beautiful. Juliana and Aleks moved here three years ago after giving up on perpetual lockdowns and restrictions that our area maintained through the pandemic; Florida had taken a very ‘do whatever the fuck you want approach,’ and they packed their family and moved, leaving everything and everyone behind.
The sound of a horn startles me again, and I whip my head around to see a pristine white minivan speeding up, narrowly missing the curb. I’m barely off the bench when Juliana rushes out of the van and wraps me in a hug, enveloping me in the scent of coconuts and sunscreen.
“Hi!” She squeals. The tone she uses when she’s excited and hasn’t yet grown tired of having guests in her life.
I’m silent as I hug her back tightly, the exhaustion of the trip and the last couple of months crashing down on me. She must realize something is off with me because she squeezes tighter, lightly rubbing my back. We must stand like this too long because a loud whistle blows nearby, and the college-looking kid screams that we can’t park there and to keep moving. Juliana throws a dismissive wave, her massive wedding ring glinting in the sun with the movement.
“Yeah, yeah. They’re awful—so impatient.” Her words are spoken loud enough that the kid would hear her.
We load my bags into the van and drive through the winding streets of Wintermere, an opulent area surrounded by large trees covered in Spanish moss. Wintermere is a silly name for a warm, sunny place that never snows. When we arrive, her house is silent, and the clock on the wall reminds me that her four boys are still at school. This silence will be a temporary treat.
Her house is stunning in that authentic Florida way, with orange clay roof tiles, white stucco, and a turquoise pool framed by palm trees. She’s redecorated since I last visited, and it looks so different.
“Jules, the place looks incredible. You really found your niche.”
“Oh, thank you! I’m so fucking bored here that all I do is renovate and spend all of our money. If I wasn’t so good in bed, he might divorce me.” She’s laughing.
The statement makes me laugh; the man is obsessed with her and for more than just being great in bed.
“Speaking of, where is your man-meat?”
She moves around the kitchen, pulling ingredients from the pantry and fridge; before long, the island countertop is covered, and I’m surprised when she finishes and hands me just a cocktail. The kitchen looks like a bomb exploded, and all I received was a drink.
“He’s on a call in his office. He’ll say hi when he’s finished…maybe…he told me he plans to make himself scarce so we can catch up.”
Taking my hand, she pulls me out onto the patio near the pool. We then drop into sun chairs in the last remaining sliver of sunshine hitting this part of the property. The afternoon sun makes her skin look gold and her hair like ice; she’s stunning. We’re two cocktails in and lost in girl talk when the front door opens, and the house fills with noise as her boys run in, fighting with each other, and Aleks emerges from his office, his loud and low voice demanding they all relax.
“I hope you enjoyed your relaxing trip because it’s officially over.” She sighs, rising from the lounger and heading toward the sliding glass door.
I follow her inside, and once again, like with Lane’s kids, the twist of guilt hits me; her boys have grown so much. Klaus is nearly as tall as Jules and looks like a young man instead of a kid. Nikau’s bleach-blond hair is long and pulled into a high ponytail. Theo looks the most like Juliana; the others are clones of Aleks, and he’s also the least changed since I last saw them. During my last visit, Milo was a shy toddler. He runs into the kitchen, grabbing a step stool to rummage through the pantry for a snack.
I would never know if any of them were happy to see me. Klaus drops his bag and heads straight to his room; Nikau heads straight for the TV, and the youngest two dash for the pool.
“I’ll just go fuck myself.” I laugh at Juliana.
“Don’t be offended—they don’t have time for us either. However, they have very high expectations of my time when it comes to them all deciding it’s critical to play soccer, baseball, and tennis.” She’s making another drink as she speaks, “Speaking of, we have baseball tomorrow morning in Lakeland. Sorry.”
The look on her face suggests that’s a bad thing, but I’ve never been to Lakeland, so I’m not disappointed. Plus, Klaus plays baseball, and I love any excuse to embarrass the shit out of that kid. I completely forget that Aleks is even there, and it’s not until he clears his throat loudly that we turn to face him. He has the same crystal blue eyes each other their boys possess. His short blonde hair is styled, and he wears a golf shirt and shorts.
“Please continue as if I don’t exist,” he deadpans.
Jules moves around the island and wraps her arms around his neck, planting a light kiss on his cheek before whispering, “Shut up and go out with your friends.”
He laughs and slaps her ass, then replies, “Don’t need to tell me twice.”
He’s grabbing his keys and heading out the door before we can say another word.
“We won’t see him again today. I have new books; we can read, drink, talk, whatever.”
Reading, always with the reading. Her suggestions sound perfect, and for the first time in weeks, my shoulders relax, and I feel a lightness as if everything with Adrian and the hockey game were a dream. It’s only when we say good night, and I retire to the guest room that I feel my chest tighten and the anxiety return.
I should have told him I was leaving.
The thought is so absurd I don’t owe him an explanation. I don’t have his phone number, and messaging him on Instagram would have meant admitting I have his Instagram; it’s not an option. When I lie down, my thoughts turn to the other night, to him standing in front of me while my hands were bound, and he brought me to the edge again and again. Rolling over, I rub my thighs together and feel a strum of pleasure that runs from my clit, up my stomach.
With my hand on my breasts, rolling my nipple between my thumb and forefinger, the needy feeling between my legs intensifies. I still haven’t remedied the destruction he created. I continue down my body—jerking off in my friend’s house wasn’t on my bingo card, but at this moment, I believe I could combust. That aside, being commanded by a man not to come has my Oppositional Defiant Disorder screaming to prove a point.
I slide my hand under my panties, and I touch myself, and the sensation is unlike any I’ve felt when touching myself. I’m instantly so close, but also an ocean away, and a sense of guilt and dread overtakes me.
Obey him.
The thought slithers through my brain before I can stop it. My hand jerks away like I’ve been burned, and my heart slams into my ribs.
Obey him? No. No fucking way.
Standing, I head to the bathroom and splash cold water on my face a few times before giving up. I start the shower and step into the freezing stream in my T-shirt and undies. I half expect my skin to sizzle from the water, and my head spins when I realize he’s done it.
He’s broken me.
I brace my hands against the tile, my breaths coming in sharp bursts. My chest tightens, and my stomach clenches. I couldn’t possibly get myself off right now, not because I’m a guest in my friend’s home, but because he told me not to without his permission.
God damn it.
When I step out of the shower, I look into the mirror. My eyes look foreign—like they belong to someone else, tired and sad. My wet shirt clings to my body, and, for the first time, I notice that I’ve lost weight. My ribs are somewhat visible through the now-sheer fabric. I strip out of the wet clothes, toss them into the shower, and wrap a towel around my body, heading back to the bedroom.
There’s no spark or desire when I lie down this time, only the cool sheets against my overheated skin. No spark. No pulse of need. Just emptiness.
Loneliness.