Chapter Forty-Seven Rae
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Rae
GRANT IS DEAD TO me.
But no way in hell am I going to ask him for it.
Because submissive in bed I may be—or on the floor, the desk, chair, and sex bench—but I’m not running after the jerk for this O. I just won’t do it. I’ll take care of the deed myself.
So instead of going to my dad’s or my sister’s or by the store for something to eat, I rush home, pour Pepe an extra helping of food, and climb up on my bed.
It doesn’t come, though. Or, rather, I don’t.
Maybe it’s the lighting. I reach over and turn my lamp off. Nothing.
The music?
I dig through my music app for something resembling the dark, bass-heavy background music he’d played today at the club, run my hands up under my skirt… and… nope.
Sighing, I pull my toy chest out from under the bed and grab my favorite suction clit stimulator. Turn it on…
And can’t quite get myself to press it to my body because…
“Can you believe it, Pepe?” Pepe meows a reply. “He told me not to… and now I can’t.”
Ignoring that last bit, the cat yawns, and nonchalantly stretches a leg out to fully clean his belly. I hate him too. I hate all of them. Everyone.
And then my phone buzzes.
I pick it up, see Grant’s name, and hit accept. “Hey, Sunny.”
“Don’t Hey, Sunny me,” I nearly shout into the phone.
“Aww, you suffering, sweetie?”
“You’re a monster.”
“Let me see you.”
I turn on my camera and glare. But then I see how exhausted he looks, dark smudges under his eyes and a five-o’clock shadow that looks hours over the limit.
“God, you’re pretty, Rae.”
“What’s wrong. Why do you look like that?”
“Just tired.”
I snort. “At least you’re not aching like a—a—a…”
His smile’s oddly soft. “What, Rae?”
“I don’t know. I can’t think like this.”
“Why not?”
“Because you left me, wet and worked up, and… and covered in your…”
“Spunk?”
“Argh! And you were right there all day! With those burn-y eyes and that… hair!”
“Bernie? Like… Sanders?”
“Oh, stop it. Show me the orgasm, Bowman.”
He bursts into laughter. “That’s my line.”
“Well, it’s mine now. I want it.”
“You can’t have it,” he says, his voice low but rich. Bossy as hell and so rough I feel it on my skin.
“Sadist,” I hiss.
“Brat,” he replies, his eyes warm as he watches me. “Show me. Show me how turned on you are.”
“No.”
“Sunny.”
It pisses me off that my body races to obey when my brain’s this irate. But he looks good and he sounds good and he’s tired and…
“Show me your face. Move the camera back.”
I obey.
“Now the rest of you.”
I pan down over my wrinkled work top and the skirt I’ve got hiked up already to my hips.
“Hold on. What’s going on here?”
“I tried.”
“Tried.”
“I was gonna do it. I’d decided to.”
“What’s that yellow thing?”
“My lemon?”
“Rae…” How he gets disappointment and excitement so perfectly wrapped up in that one syllable is a mystery to me, but it’s all there. “Baby, you’re not supposed to try. You’re supposed to wait. That’s the rule.”
“I hate the rule. The rule sucks.”
He sighs and lies back, and the moment I realize he’s probably in bed too, all the pent-up frustration loosens, and I’m turned right on again. Only the good kind of worked up, not the kind that’s like a too-tight knot I don’t have the tools to loosen.
“Show me your bed,” I say. It takes a second, but he finally does it and what he shows me is a plain white room, navy sheets, and a dark bed frame. “It looks big.”
“It is.”
I don’t say anything else about that bed, that room. It’s got no place in this relationship, or whatever this is, and I’m not about to push any boundaries between us.
“I want to come now, Grant.”
“I know, sweetie.” He sighs. Smiles. “But you can’t.”
I suck in a breath. “You’re pure evil.”
“Maybe.” He nods. “But let me tell you something. Your next climax is going to be something to behold. And I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”