Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
PIZZA
The door closes behind him, and for one suspended, infuriating second I just stand there staring at it, breathing hard and feeling the shape of his absence settle over the room like a fresh insult.
He left me. He left me aching and wanting and…
That should not surprise me. He told me we were stopping.
He told me he was done pushing for the night, and worse than that, he said it in that low, comic book bat character voice that made it sound less like restraint and more like command, as if I was supposed to take the decision from him the same way I had taken everything else, warm and breathless and far too willing by the time he was finished with me.
The problem is that my body has not gotten the message.
My body is still standing here in the wreckage of his hands and his mouth and that devastating, impossible patience of his, and every inch of me feels unfinished in the most humiliating way imaginable.
I hate him a little for that.
I hate him more for how much I want him back in the room.
I still feel the cool against the backs of my thighs when I lean into the counter, and the contrast only makes the ache in me sharper.
My center is still throbbing with the memory of him, heavy with heat, tender with want, and so painfully aware of everything he started that it feels almost cruel he had the self-control to walk away while I am left here glowing and restless and entirely too conscious of my own body.
My lips still feel kissed. My throat still feels claimed.
My breasts ache with the ghost of his mouth and hands.
Even the air against my skin has become unbearable, every little brush of silk and lace and cooling warmth turning into a reminder that he left me full of sensation and nowhere to put it.
One time.
That had been the arrangement, hadn’t it?
One time. One scene. One crack in the polished shell I had spent years perfecting, and then we were supposed to go back to whatever version of normal we are meant to have.
I would love to know when that stopped sounding possible, because somewhere between his hand at my waist and the first time he told me to stay put, the whole idea became absurd.
There is no returning to normal after this.
There is no going back to pretending I don’t know what it feels like to be handled by someone who watches every reaction as if it matters, who drags the truth out of my body with patient, merciless care, and then leaves me burning with the promise of more.
My laugh comes out soft and shaky and a little feral around the edges.
Of course he knew what he was doing.
Of course he knew exactly what kind of mess he was leaving behind.
That man walked out of this room with my pulse still racing, my thoughts half-melted, and the worst kind of ache curling low in me, the kind that refuses to settle because it is no longer only physical.
It is craving now. It is anticipation. It is the unbearable knowledge that he could have taken more and chose not to, and that choice has lodged itself under my skin with all the force of a threat and all the seduction of a promise.
I push away from the table and pace once across the room, then back again, because standing still feels impossible.
The mirrors do me no favors. Everywhere I look, I catch some softened, flushed version of myself staring back, lipstick smudged, hair loosened, dress slipping low enough to remind me exactly how much skin he had uncovered and exactly how carefully he had made me feel every second of it.
I look thoroughly kissed, thoroughly handled, thoroughly undone, and the sight of it sends another wave of heat through me so strong I have to grip the edge of the chair just to keep from swearing out loud.
This is ridiculous.
This is so far beyond ridiculous that it should have looped all the way back around to funny by now, except there is nothing funny about the way my body keeps answering to him long after he is gone.
Every memory lands like a fresh touch. The rough velvet drag of his voice saying good girl.
The slow, wicked certainty of his mouth at my throat.
The way his hand settled at my waist as though that was simply where it belonged.
The way he looked at me when he asked for my word, and the way I gave it to him.
The way I liked it.
That is the part I cannot smooth over, cannot package, cannot hide behind a clever line or a cutting remark.
I liked it. I liked obeying him. I liked the praise.
I liked the pressure of his control meeting the exact place in me that had been starving for it.
I liked the feeling of being brought right to the edge of something wild and humiliating and wonderful, only to be left there shaking with it, because now every nerve in me is tuned to the possibility of him doing it again.
My head tips back for a second, and I close my eyes because that is somehow easier than looking at myself.
The silence in the room is oppressive. Outside, somewhere beyond the door, the world is still turning.
People are still laughing, drinking, talking, praising, judging.
The whole world is still moving faster than the speed of sound.
Meanwhile I am standing here in my ruined lipstick and expensive dress, aching for a man who left me wanting on purpose and somehow made that feel like the filthiest thing anyone has ever done to me.
I should be furious.
Instead I am already thinking about next time.
The realization moves through me slowly and completely, settling deeper with every breath.
I want the next look, the next command, the next unbearably careful touch.
I want the way he makes me feel watched and wanted in the same breath.
I want the terrible, trembling anticipation of hearing him tell me to stay still and knowing I will.
I want the slow build of it, the drag of it, the way he coaxes every reaction out of me as if he has all the time in the world and every intention of using it.
I press my thighs together on instinct and immediately resent myself for how much that helps and how little it fixes.
The ache only sharpens. My breath catches again.
I let it out slowly, already imagining the smirk that would curve his mouth if he could see me now, standing here half-dressed and overworked by my own imagination because he had the nerve to leave me in this state and call it taking care of me.
The bastard.
Let him go, my pride says.
Top this, the rest of me answers.