9. Adriana #4
My hand moves to my thigh, then slides under the hem of my shirt as I lie back on the bed.
I tell myself to stop, that this is wrong and I shouldn't be doing this.
I shouldn't be thinking about him this way, shouldn't be wanting him when he's become a man who kidnapped me, forced me to marry him, locked me in a room.
But I don't stop. It feels like I can't.
I let my hand slip beneath the waistband of my jeans, and I imagine it's his hand, his touch, his fingers sliding against me the way they did ten years ago. I imagine him here with me, pushing me back onto this bed, stripping away my clothes and looking at me the way he used to.
I work my jeans open with trembling fingers, push them down my hips along with my underwear, and slide my hand between my legs. I feel hot and slick already, desperately wet just from the sight of his muscled, shirtless, tattooed body and the scent of his sweat and the touch of his hand.
It's been ten years since I've had anything but my fingers to ease this ache. Ten years since the one and only time I had a man—had Lachlan—inside of me. And right now I need it so badly there's no way I can stop myself, no matter how guilty I feel.
My fingers circle my clit, and I imagine his hands on my body, his mouth on my skin, his voice in my ear telling me I'm beautiful, telling me he loves me.
I imagine him pushing inside me, filling me, claiming me, making me his in the way he did ten years ago.
The fantasy is so vivid I can almost feel it and believe it's real.
My clit is already swollen beneath my fingers, pulsing, more wetness leaking onto my thighs as I spread them slightly and bring my other hand down to push two fingers into myself.
I'm almost painfully tight, and I remember what it felt like when Lachlan pushed inside of me, how big he felt, how much it burned and felt incredible at the same time.
It would feel like that all over again, after so many years. Like him taking my virginity for a second time. The thought sends pleasure racing through my veins, and I thrust my fingers deeper, moving them and wishing it was his cock, filling me up so much better than I can do for myself.
The orgasm is so close already, the pleasure mounting so rapidly I feel like it's running away with me.
I imagine him above me, his weight pressing me into the mattress, his eyes locked on mine, his body moving with mine.
I imagine the way he would touch me, the way he would kiss me, the way he would make me feel like I'm the only thing that matters in the world.
Lachlan, I think, moaning his name in my head as I bite my lip to keep from moaning it aloud, and I'm close now, so close, just a little more, just a little—
If he was here, I would let him…
Let him do what? Have you, when you don't even know him any longer? When the last time you did, the whole world came crashing down around you? Would you risk your son to have your selfish pleasure again?
Reality crashes in like a wave of ice water, drowning the pleasure, killing the fantasy.
The memory of the locked door, the sound of the lock clicking into place, the knowledge that I'm a prisoner here no matter how beautiful the cage, presses in on me from all sides.
The memory of being dragged onto that plane, sedated against my will, my choices taken from me like they've been taken from me for ten years.
And then Gio's voice in my ear, Gio's threats about what he would do to Matteo if I didn't obey, if I didn't pose for those photos, if I didn't do exactly what he wanted.
My father, and then Gio, controlled me, owned me, decided what I could do and where I could go and who I could be. Lachlan has proved he's just another man who thinks he knows what's best for me, and thinks he has the right to make my choices for me, who thinks that love justifies control.
He wears a different face and has different methods, different justifications. But it's still the same. He's still a man who took what he wanted without asking, who locked me in a room and thinks he owns me.
The pleasure dies instantly, the chaotic rush of memories and thoughts making my stomach turn. My hand stills, and I pull it away, disgusted with myself, with him, with this whole impossible situation. I can't do this. I can't want him. I can't forgive him.
I pull my panties back up with shaking hands, leaving my jeans on the floor, and curl onto my side on the bed.
I wrap my arms around myself, and I feel tears sliding down my face even though I'm not sure why I'm crying—for the girl I used to be, maybe, for the boy he used to be, for the future we should have had and never will.
I'm trapped here in this beautiful prison with a man I used to love and now don't even recognize, and I don't know how to survive this, how to protect my son when I don't even know how to protect myself.
I lie there alone, wanting things I shouldn't want, hating myself for wanting them. And somewhere in this penthouse, Lachlan is probably lying in his own bed and thinking about me, wanting me, believing that somehow this will all work out, that we can find our way back to each other.
But it won't work out.
It can't.
Some things are too broken to fix.