Chapter 4
chapter
four
What the fuck?
I don’t know how long I lay there—pressed flat, lungs caged by the duvet, muscles humming with rage and want.
Luka’s scent clung to my skin, daring me to scrub it off.
I tried not to think about him. I tried not to think about the way he’d left me—naked and cooling, every muscle trembling, my body wound so tight it practically vibrated against the mattress.
I tried to focus on work, my next meeting, anything but that voice:
Go to sleep.
Don’t touch yourself.
Not a finger.
Be a good girl, and keep your hands off what’s mine.
I could have timed it—how many seconds before humiliation became anger, how many before anger fizzed into need, how many before shame looped back around to feed them both.
I tried to stay angry. To stoke that old, familiar fire I’d used to torch a hundred boardrooms and countless bad dates.
But all I could summon was the ache—low, gluttonous, relentless.
I could still feel Luka’s breath in my hair, the imprint of his hand at my throat, the scrape of his stubble on my skin. My body—my own body—was betraying me.
I’d never met anyone who could split me open with a single syllable. Or leave me hollow just by walking out the door.
Don’t touch yourself.
The fuck I wouldn’t.
I flung the duvet off. My skin itched with the ghost of his touch, every inch of me screaming to be filled, to be used, to finally be allowed to break open. He thought he could just walk out? He thought I’d just lie here, like some good little—
No. Not a fucking chance.
I stalked over to my suitcase and yanked it onto the luggage rack. The zipper teeth bit open, and I dug through the neat strata of rolled slacks and sweaters until I found what I wanted—my discreet lipstick vibrator.
Back on the bed, I collapsed backward onto the mattress and spread my knees like I was putting on a show for the chandelier. I hated how ready I was, how little it had taken, but the moment I clicked the toy on, my whole pelvis tightened.
Don’t touch yourself.
Luka’s voice slid through my head again.
I pressed the smooth tip to my clit—just enough—and the first vibration chewed through the tension he’d wound into my nerves.
Too much. Too fast.
My hips snapped up, chasing the pressure, and I clamped a hand over my mouth—not because anyone could hear, but because the moan that ripped out of me was raw and desperate.
I forced myself to ease off. Breathe. Let the cold air of the room bleed off the edge.
The toy buzzed in my hand—cheap, mechanical, nothing like him—but I bore down anyway, circling my clit in the steady, mindless rhythm that always got the job done.
It took less than thirty seconds. The orgasm hit hard and sharp, a single electric snap that locked my body and knocked the air from my lungs.
My thighs trembled as the sensation drained away, leaving heat, breath, and the ugly twist of knowing how little it had taken.
But it was hollow. The relief lasted maybe a heartbeat, and then the ache came clawing back.
I was still empty. Still wound tight. Still needing him.
I dragged the pillow over my face, trapping the sound as I shoved the vibrator back between my legs. Maybe if I came again, I’d be able to sleep. Maybe I could wear the edge off this feeling—dull the ache he’d left behind.
This time, I let the fantasy take over.
Luka in the chair by the window. Watching. Arms folded, jaw set—disappointed, but hungry. Like I was a problem he intended to solve.
I imagined him crossing the room, tearing the toy from my hand, pinning my wrists to the headboard, and putting his mouth on me until I begged him to stop. I imagined his cock forcing its way inside me while I twisted against the sheets.
I tightened my grip, slick with sweat, and raked the toy harder over my clit—again and again—punishing myself the way he would.
The second orgasm didn’t creep up on me. I stalked it, hunted it down, cranking the vibrator to its highest setting, chasing friction instead of pleasure.
All I could see was him.
His hand at the back of my neck. His voice in my ear, low and merciless.
You couldn’t even last one night.
I bit into the pillow when the release tore through me. It was agony, the kind that left me thrashing against the sheets, every nerve on fire. My hips jerked, my legs locked. Tears leaked sideways into the fabric.
When it was over, the quiet felt enormous.
And the worst part—the part that made my stomach twist—was that it still hadn’t been enough.
I’d come twice.
And all I could think about was Luka.
Fuck, I wanted him.