Chapter 31
Chapter thirty-one
Miserable
Becky
The next two days are miserable.
I’m on edge, anxious and jumpy, flinching at every little sound like a house cat gone feral.
I keep waiting for my supposed punishment to come at any minute, bracing without even knowing what it is.
Torture? Psychological manipulation? Something worse?
My mind cycles through possibilities, dragging me back to the handcuffs, the brand, those dark red stains on the floor in the round room downstairs.
None of it helps.
But if I’m being honest, which I’m not, because absolutely not, that’s not even the worst part.
It’s the sexual frustration.
Carrson hasn’t touched me since that night. Not once. Not even accidentally. No brushing past me in the hallway. No fingers grazing mine when I hand him something.
Nothing.
It’s as if I imagined the whole thing.
Except I didn’t.
Because I remember exactly how it felt. How good it was. That orgasm was, honestly, it should come with a warning label. Life-altering. Perspective-shifting. The kind that makes you sit there afterward like, oh. So that’s what people have been talking about this whole time.
And Carrson walks away from that?
Goes to his room every night. Shuts the door. Tells me to sleep well like we—like I didn’t—
Ugh.
It’s infuriating.
To make things even more awful, Carrson doesn’t seem unhappy at all. I’ve never seen him so cheerful. He practically floats around the house, this faint little smile on his face like the fucking Cheshire Cat.
This morning at breakfast, I actually caught him humming under his breath.
Humming!
Carrson Ashford.
I nearly choked on my coffee.
I wanted to smack him and kiss him in equal measure.
Is this my punishment? Because if it is, it’s working. Being ignored by a man who has already ruined me for anyone else feels suspiciously intentional. I’m convinced he knows exactly what he’s doing. That he has a plan. A diabolical one.
Now, I sit at the breakfast table with dirty dishes and crumpled napkins, I rest my forehead in my hands and groan softly.
A thump from upstairs and then the sounds of footsteps tell me he’s done with his shower. I hop up from the chair and busy myself cleaning up from breakfast. I’m bending over loading the dishwasher when he walks into the kitchen looking unfairly good.
Clean shirt. Dark jeans. Hair damp. I watch a drop bead and slide down his neck, and I’m unreasonably envious of it, of the way it gets to trace his skin.
Great. Now I’m jealous of water.
“Do you need help? I’ve got five minutes before I leave,” Carrson says, crossing into the kitchen all composed, like a man who didn’t have a knife at my throat and his hands all over me forty-eight hours ago.
Not that I’m counting.
My eye twitches.
“No, I’ve got it,” I say, wiping my hands on a towel I want to throw at him.
He moves around the kitchen with easy familiarity, grabbing a glass from the cabinet, filling it with water. I watch him the entire time, tracking his every movement.
“Did you sleep well?” he asks, taking a sip.
I stare at him.
“Fantastic,” I say. “Best sleep of my life. Nothing like a looming threat of punishment to really knock you out.”
“I’m glad,” he says mildly, placing his empty glass into the sink.
That’s it.
That’s all he’s going to—
“Oh my God,” I snap, tossing the towel onto the counter. “Are you serious right now?”
His brow lifts slightly. “About?”
“About this,” I gesture wildly between us. “About the fact that you threatened me, very vaguely, I might add, and then… what? Went back to normal?”
He leans a hip against the sink and crosses his ankles, the picture of ease. “Tell me,” He says, “what exactly were you expecting?”
My pulse skyrockets.
“I don’t know,” I say, even though I absolutely do. “Something.”
A million images flash through my imagination. Ninety-nine percent of them involve him without clothing.
I’m officially losing my mind.
He tilts his head at me, eyes quizzical. “Have you been waiting?”
“No,” I say. Then, “Yes.” I huff. “Maybe.” I give up. “It’s been on my mind.”
He rubs his chin thoughtfully. “Interesting,” he murmurs.
“Oh my God. Stop.” I glare, face hot. “You’re unbelievable.”
That makes him laugh. Actual laughter.
I glare so hard I could burn a hole through his forehead if I had laser vision. Which I don’t. But I really wish I did right now.
“Do you get off on this?” I demand. “On making me crazy?”
His lips quirk like he’s holding back a smile. “Not yet.”
That—that shouldn’t do anything for me. It shouldn’t make my stomach flutter. Or my mind to call back every image of us. Of him on top of me. Inside me.
It absolutely does.
Fuck.
I hate him.
I hate him so much.
“Then do it already,” I snap, the words out before I can stop them. “Whatever you’re going to do. Punish me. Get it over with.”
The second the words leave my mouth, I want to stuff them back in.
Because now he’s really smiling, not even trying to hide it. “Ah,” he says knowingly. “you can’t wait for me to do it.”
Heat floods my entire body, starting at my cheeks, ending in my core.
“I—no. That’s not what I meant—”
“Then what did you mean?” he pushes off the sink and stalks over to me. Right into my space.
My back hits the cabinet behind me. I didn’t even realize I was moving.
Carrson braces one hand beside me, boxing me in without touching me.
“Because it sounds like you’ve been thinking about it.”
I swallow hard. “I haven’t.”
He leans in, closer than he’s been since that night and butterflies explode in my belly. They flap their wings, riot and dance.
“Watch out, Becky,” he murmurs, his voice a husky rasp.
My name sounds different when he says it like that.
“Why?” I whisper, eyes wide as I stare up at him. “Why should I watch out?” I’m not sure I want the answer.
His eyes lock on mine, and I know what’s coming before he says it.
“Because I might start to think you want it.” His gaze goes dark while my heart tries to tumble right out of my chest. His face so close to mine it’d take no effort at all to kiss me.
Please kiss me.
But he doesn’t. Instead, he steps back, leaving me ten degrees colder.
Leaving me standing there, flushed and furious and—God.
Humiliatingly turned on.
“Walk me out,” he calls over his shoulder as he moves away.
I follow, dragging my feet, but tied to him anyway. Like there’s an invisible leash around my neck.
At the front door, Carrson turns back.
I gasp when he grabs the belt loops of my jeans and yanks me into him, pulling my body flush against his. Awareness sparks instantly. Of him. His scent, clean soap layered over earth. The solidness of his chest. The way his hands slide around my back and hold me there.
“It’s our last day here,” he says, sounding a little melancholic which soothes me because I’m the same way. As annoyed as I am now, I’ve enjoyed having nearly unlimited access to him.
“I know,” I drop my head, staring at his chest.
“Don’t be glum,” he says. “I have a present for you.”
My head snaps up. One minute he won’t touch me, and the next he’s pressed up against me, offering gifts?
“What?” I ask, distracted from how close we are.
He leans in, his mouth hovering just shy of mine.
“All the doors are unlocked,” he whispers. “I’ll be back in two hours.”
My mouth falls open. I probably look ridiculous. A fish dropped onto dry land.
He squeezes me once, crushing my cheek to his chest, then lets go, grinning. “Have fun.”
The door closes behind him.