Chapter 35
Jansen
Thanksgiving sucked.
There are no other words for it.
I went home and Evie refused to talk to me—my mom had no idea how to fix it. Honestly, I think my mom assumed Evie didn’t like my makeover. I heard them whisper-shouting about it while I passed out on the couch after taking my pills.
Their fight didn’t fix anything, of course. And every time I tried to explain why Clara did what she did, Evie shut me down or walked away.
I hated it.
So, we had a silent, awkward dinner before I drove back to the Cities, not even staying the night. My mom called me while I was driving, trying to ask about my physical health in a carefully worded, circuitous manner, and I knew Evie had told her I’d been shot. Or at least majorly injured.
And I’d told her I was fine. That my meds seemed to help, even if I didn’t quite feel like myself and was tired a lot more often than I’m used to. Not what she asked, but what else was I supposed to say? I said nothing about my diaphragm, about the twinge of pain when I laugh, or cough, or run.
Twinge is probably an understatement.
I only wish I was all the way better already. Without my mind or my body at peak performance, I feel like nothing but a burden. Which is probably why I’m fixing up Black with all my free time. At least I’m useful in some way.
And even though the psychiatrist finally had an opening, I asked for my appointment to be pushed until January, afraid that it would lead the evil mastermind right to me. They said they’d put me on the waitlist, but it might be longer.
After years of fucking around with my health, I finally want to fix it, and I can’t. Which also sucks.
The meds hold tight like a net under my frustrations, keeping me from sinking into depression, and that sucks too. It’s like there’s a barrier between what I want to feel and what I can feel.
But then I remind myself, yet again, that the barrier is there for a reason. That near catatonia followed by a visit to a tower to see if I can fly is a good thing to have a barrier against.
Logically, I know that.
But the adjustment period is damn uncomfortable.
Black is dark when I get back, Fluffington mewing his frustration at being left as he bounds down the stairs at me.
“Yeah, I know. But you’re not the biggest fan of other cats anymore, little man,” I say, scooping him onto my shoulders, the weight of him grounding as his tail twitches against my core.
We go to the kitchen, and I plop out some wet food, even though I know he’s already had a scheduled drop of kibble earlier today. It’s a holiday, for all it doesn’t feel like one.
Knowing I’m being dumb, I pull out my phone, opening the text chain with Clara.
We have to be so careful with our communication.
RJ made our phones all but untraceable, but that’s not the problem.
Not really. It’s giving up too much of ourselves, accidentally letting slip any of our plans.
And worst of all for me is not knowing whether she’s free to chat unless she messages first.
My fingers beat my logic, though.
Hey
I flop down on the island, Fluffington curling on my stomach and purring once he finishes his holiday bonus meal. After an hour or so of staring at the ceiling, my phone buzzes.
Hey!
I grin, unable to keep my excitement from my face.
I just wanted to say that I miss you. And I love you. And I wish I could be tucked up right beside you.
Just beside me? :-P
Chuckling, I wince.
Actually, I do more than wince, not needing to hide how much it hurts from anybody right now. Fluffington does a circle on my torso, annoyed I disturbed his rest, before settling back right where he started.
I mean, I’d take inside you, if the offer’s available.
And if it were?
Then I’m yours. However, whenever.
Waiting for her reply is torture. But it’s the best kind.
One where my fingers and toes tingle in anticipation.
I can’t be with her, not in the way we both want.
But this? Fuck if I care if somebody is reading our chats.
Clara is what matters. And if she’s comfortable using her short leash like this, I’m happy to join her.
Finally, she replies. And it’s not what I expected.
It’s so much better.
She’s wearing a pale pink silk thing, her hair loose around her shoulders, the angle of the camera leaving me looking up at her. My breath is tight, just seeing her, knowing she’s with me in this moment, even though we’re separate.
Kneel.
I am so here for this game.
Plucking twenty pounds of cat from my stomach, I rush upstairs, Fluffington’s tail swishing in frustration in my arms. But when I set him in his favorite spot, looking out at the street, he lets me leave him there.
Then I strip off my shirt, run my hand through my still unfamiliar short hair, before dropping to my knees next to my mattress.
I feel a tiny bit silly sending her a picture of myself, but honestly—if a picture of her has me rushing up here to follow her command, I have to believe that a picture in return will do…something.
The text that comes next has my heart rate spiking.
Good boy.
I want to whimper, not knowing why two simple words make me feel like she’s given me the world. But it does feel like that. Exactly like that.
Like for once, I’m good enough. She sees it. She likes it. And all I want is to keep being good, just for her.
I lick my lips, knowing if she were here she’d be kissing me, or at least brushing her fingertips across my face, her touch so feather-light my nerves would shimmer. Phantom chills run down my spine, the games we’ve played bright in my memory.
The time she’d braided my hair, stroked every inch of my body, blew me so hard I saw white, and didn’t let me touch her until I was begging, tears making the whole world blurry.
The time she’d driven us out to the desert on the souped-up motorbike, laid down the ugly-ass blanket that came with the RV, and fucked me, not letting me come until she was boneless from more orgasms than either of us could count.
And now, waiting for her next text, I hold tight to those memories, to the sounds, the scents, the pure presence of her, hoping it’ll be enough.
At least for now.
I’m going to be perfectly clear. I will not be kind to you. Not tonight. Are you okay with that?
Very.
Okay then. Take out your dick. I want you close to coming, but you can’t. Not until I give you the command. Do you understand?
Completely.
Sass will double your wait.
Not sassy. Just honest.
I whip off my pants and underwear, folding my blanket to coat the cold, hard floor, knowing she would have done it for me if she were here. She’s thoughtful like that.
Then I tease myself, working myself dry, needing the roughness tonight, slowly coating myself in pre-cum, wishing for more while absolutely giddy with what I’ve got.
How close are you?
Getting there, beautiful.
Good. Now you’re going to have to kneel there, keeping yourself on edge until Trips finishes fucking me. Do you understand?
Oh. Oh. That’s wow. My dick gets even harder in my hand, and a strained chuckle escapes.
Yes, Ma’am.
You know I don’t like it when you call me that.
Then yes, queen.
Not any better. You’re just prolonging your torture.
Good. That means I get even longer thinking about you.
Sweet talker. Message if you’re too close to wait.
Aye aye, captain.
She replies with the middle finger emoji, and my bark of laughter leads to a yelp of pain, tears filling my eyes while my dick stays undeterred in my fist.
Being tortured by my girl is more than worth the pain.
My imagination goes to Clara and Trips together, and I can’t quite see it. I know it’s happened. It’s had to, with his dad’s strange obsession with them having a baby. But still. I’ll have to see it to get it.
So, instead, I imagine her with Walker and RJ, her taunting smile as she makes me wait, leaving me groaning in the silent house.
I’m so close to the edge that my ears ring, every slow stroke of my palm on my dick equal parts torture and pleasure, my balls so tight that they might as well get sucked into my body at this point.
And still, no message.
“I’m not going to make it,” I whine, wishing she could hear me, that she would turn to me, her dark eyes glowing, and tell me I can, and I will, and I won’t under any circumstances come without her permission.
I grapple for my phone, and just as I manage a few letters, it buzzes.
Come for me, Trouble.
“Oh fuck yes,” I sigh, letting go of everything I’d been holding back, my knuckles and blanket getting soaked and messy, my thighs quivering, my mind completely silent.
“Fuck yes,” I say again, flopping forward, my sweaty forehead landing with a bounce against the mattress.
I scramble for the phone, awkwardly typing with a shaky left hand.
Thank you.
It’s not enough; it’s not even quite what I mean, but it’s all I can manage right now.
You did such a good job.
I feel her phantom fingers running across my scalp, her soft lips peppering my face with kisses. I feel her here, and a few tears soak into my mattress.
My phone buzzes again, and I know this is probably it for the night.
I love you, so very much.
I love you, too.
It’s not the same; it couldn’t be. But it’s enough. For now.