Twenty-Four #2
After that first day, I spend every morning and afternoon at the pool, if only to stave off the boredom.
I can’t bring myself to swim naked, but I do take my time getting changed in the pool house, putting on a show for the cameras that I don’t even know are there.
There’s a perverse satisfaction in walking around in the buff, flipping off random parts of the ceiling.
The sunroom is my other sanctuary, especially when I explore the library. It’s short on romances, but there are some classics that apparently everyone should read and I haven’t, so I catch up.
Yet there’s a limit to how much of my time I can spend treading water, figuratively and literally. My mood oscillates wildly, flicking from anger to depression at the drop of a hat, paying long visits to boredom along the way, and landing on frustration for most of the time.
And if I’m honest, I know why.
I miss him. The weight of his hand on my neck, the certainty of him.
The sound of his voice, those unsettling steel-grey eyes.
I miss the bastard who broke into my apartment and cuffed me to my own headboard.
Who killed two men in my living room and then checked my cheekbone with hands that were still warm from it.
The way he takes up all the space in the room without even trying, and pushes his hard body against my back.
No one has called me Little Stray in far too long.
No, I don’t miss him, I’m angry at him. Furious. Six days, not a word. Not a note, not a message through any of his lackeys, like I’m one of his goddamn cars in that locked garage.
How could he drop me off here like so much luggage, then just up and leave without even so much as a goodbye? Or telling me where he was going? Or when he’s getting back?
What if he isn’t coming back? What if he got hurt?
God, I hope he’s not lying in a ditch somewhere, finally reaping what he’s sown.
I picture it too clearly, and it stops me from breathing.
I have to steady myself with a hand on the wall, closing my eyes to ward off the images of him injured and broken.
He leads a violent life; has it caught up with him?
If he’s not bleeding out, if he’s only forgotten about me, when I see him next he’ll wish he was lying in a ditch.
It’s a shock to realize I don’t want anything to happen to him when only a week ago, I wanted him dead. But then I wanted Serranto dead too, and now he is, and I’m to blame for that, whatever Van Wyk says.
Who have I become?
That night, I storm off to my room without eating the dinner Linda prepared, feeling like a petulant teenager and hating him for it.
My frustration has another cause, too, and that’s on him as well. I’m horny all the goddamn time, and it’s because I’m in his house. There are reminders everywhere. Linda won’t stop talking about him, with nauseating admiration. His study smells of him. The bedroom smells of him.
There are seven other bedrooms and I tried sleeping in one of them, but came back in here.
If there are cameras, it’s here they’ll be.
Maybe there aren’t any, and what I’m about to do is just for me, and not for him at all.
Slowly, I peel off my clothes, rotating on the spot as I do so, letting him get all the angles he wants. Wherever he is, whatever he’s doing, maybe a reminder of what he’s missing will bring him back. Or at least piss him off if he can’t do anything about it.
I run my hands over my body, closing my eyes as I caress myself, lifting my chin toward the ceiling for the cameras that are or aren’t there. Then I crawl onto the bed, keeping my ass raised because I know he likes it, every movement deliberate.
Let him watch. The next time I see him, I’m going to claw his eyes out for leaving me here like this.
I roll to my back, spreading my legs, lifting my knees. I know I’m already wet, and I haven’t even touched myself. I cup one breast, teasing the nipple, running my other hand down over my stomach, between my legs. Teasing myself, teasing him.
Now that I’m finally doing this, I’m not in a rush anymore, and for the first time in days, both my frustration and my anger are taking a back seat.
This is what I want. This is what I need.
I spread myself open, letting him have a very good look, letting him see how wet I am.
“You can hear me, can’t you, you bastard?” I murmur. “See what you’re not getting, ever again.”
I slide a finger inside myself then brush it over my clit, arching my back at the promise of the pleasure to come. It’s not just my touch that’s arousing me. It’s not that I’m naked in his room. It’s that I’m picturing his frustration as he watches me, and I know he is.
But my fingers aren’t enough. I need more. I need him, gripping my neck, pinning me down and fucking me hard.
Damn him for making me want him. Damn him for the reminders everywhere I go in this house.
My frustration returns, and as it does, I roll to my side, reaching for the drawer of the nightstand, looking for more. It’s reflex; lost in the moment, I’ve forgotten this isn’t my bedroom. There won’t be anything there.
But I’m wrong. It’s full.
I sit up, taking a closer look. A bundle of bondage rope.
Two sets of his preferred cuffs, brown leather and velvet lining.
I’ll need to borrow some scissors from Linda.
A bottle of lube. I’m so wet I don’t need that.
A string of beads that probably have some purpose, but I leave them alone. A blindfold.
And beneath it all, a silicone cock in electric blue.
It doesn’t vibrate, but that’s fine.
“This will do,” I tell him as I lie back in the center of the bed, spreading my legs once more. “It’s bigger than you are.” Except it isn’t.
I bite my lip in pleasure as I slowly push it into me, canting my hips so that he has the best view. It’s not a substitute for him, but it’s better than my fingers alone, and I push it deep, gasping softly at the mild pain.
This is the outlet I’ve been missing. From now on, I’ll do this every night, then I won’t be interested in him when he returns.
It’s still not enough. It’s not this dildo that’s affecting me, it’s him, in absentia, watching me through his cameras. I turn over, getting my knees beneath me, lifting my ass. Showing him everything. Then I push his silicone substitute back inside me, and pump it as hard as I can.
Let him see this. He can look, but not touch. Hear my moans, but not feel me clench around him when I come. Smell my scent on his sheets when he finally returns, knowing what I did without him.
It’s that thought that tips me over the edge, and I come as hard as I ever have, save when I’m with him.
The orgasm rips through me in waves, my thighs shaking, my whole body clenching around the silicone as I cry out into the empty room.
It goes on longer than it should, longer than I want it to, because it’s his face behind my eyelids and his name on my lips and I can’t make either of them stop.
When at last it fades, I drop onto the bed, exhausted and a sweaty mess, and deposit the dildo on his pillow, sticky with my arousal.
Thoughts of him fill my mind and a smile plays on my lips as I turn on my side, and I sleep better that night than I have in a long time.