Chapter Twenty-Nine
Twenty-Nine
Caine
Margot is on calls in Shane’s office for most of the day.
I stay busy: scheduling a security company to come out to the haunt to install the whole shebang, following up on the security cameras that still haven’t been delivered, and ordering the materials I need to redo the squish room.
While there are many elements of the haunt I plan on redoing over the next few years, the squish room couldn’t wait.
It’s a long, narrow room that patrons walk through.
As they move through the space, inflatable “walls” will slowly close in on them.
Due to the nature of the activity, people bump and “squish” against the sturdy rubber-coated canvas walls.
The current inflatables have been there since I started working at the haunt in high school, and there’s no amount of cleaning that can remove the scent of bodies and fear sweat that’s soaked into them over the years.
I also spend some time exploring the fitness app and do a little Google research, including hunting down the number for the prison ministry Nicholas is running.
When I call, I get a generic voicemail. On a whim, I introduce myself as Marcus Martin, a business owner looking to make a charitable donation to the program, and leave a message asking for a callback.
It feels like a long shot, but it’s worth a try.
When Margot emerges from the office at last, we make the dinner of the exhausted: pancakes and vegetarian bacon, which tastes better than I expect.
As we eat, I give her a rundown of what I learned from the app.
Unfortunately, it isn’t much, because despite her earlier claim, I’m not even close to being a hacker.
My vote is to delete her account and the whole fitness app, because while I can’t figure out how he’s using it to track her, it makes the most sense.
Margot’s in agreement. I don’t mention calling the prison ministry, planning to wait until I actually hear something.
She looks so drained tonight, and I’m right there with her.
After dinner, all I want is to cuddle up with her.
My room, her room, the couch, the floor, I don’t care.
My dreams are not realized. Margot says she’s turning in early, her body language making it clear that she doesn’t want company.
I know this is all happening fast. I’ve been head over heels for years and need to wait for her to catch up.
And I will. In the meantime, it’s challenging.
I want to grab her and not let her go until she tells me what’s going on inside her head, because nothing makes my soul ache more than Margot acting okay when she isn’t.
Now that I know the signs, I can’t unsee them.
On the off chance that she needs me, I leave my bedroom door open.
I work on the new track design for the squish room until eleven.
There hasn’t been so much as a floorboard creak from next door.
I’m trying not to think about how much I wish we were sharing a room.
Two nights together at the hotel ruined me.
Having her face be the last thing I see before I fall asleep and the first thing I see in the morning was bliss.
Even her cold toes made me happy. I know she has a “separate beds” policy, but tomorrow I’m going to attempt to renegotiate this stance.
I’m just settling back into my flow state when a new sound breaks the silence.
The buzz is so faint that at first, I think it’s a bee stuck in a window screen, then I’m up and moving, wondering if it’s some sort of snake sound.
I’m at the door to her room, hand hovering over the knob, before it hits me what the noise is.
Is that a—
The tone switches, humming slightly higher as if confirming that, yes, what I’m listening to is definitely a vibrator.
Do I hear the mattress shift, or am I just imagining it?
Is that breathy exhale actually hers, or is it the sound of my own pained inhale echoing through my head?
My cock is instantly at attention, and if he had his way, I’d let him drill through the door and offer his services.
Why was I not invited to this party?
It’s all I can do not to knock and ask if there’s room for one more.
But she hasn’t been shy about initiating, and I’m not hard to find.
Maybe she’s trying to masturbate herself to sleep and doesn’t have the emotional bandwidth for sex with another person.
I’ll have to find a way to subtly work into conversation that I’m not opposed to being used that way when the need arises.
She can get on and get off, no muss, no fuss.
Forcing myself to walk back to my room and sit down at my desk takes levels of herculean effort. I grab my pencil and the Book of Margot, knowing if I don’t do something—anything—with my hands, I’m going to be jerking off to the knowledge that she’s getting off on the other side of the wall.
This is agony. Margot’s vibrator switches speeds.
For the first time in my life, I consider chewing through drywall.
The steady whir has turned into a soft Morse code situation.
I’ve never been with anyone who actually used the dots and dashes setting on a vibrator, so this is excellent information. It goes in the book.
Vibrator settings: slow, medium, and Morse code.
Checking my phone, I wish I’d noted when she started.
I’ve lost all sense of time sitting here, and having an idea of approximately how long it takes her to reach orgasm solo seems like it could be useful data.
Six minutes later there’s a final click, back down to medium.
This speed runs for maybe sixty seconds, and I definitely hear the bed frame shift before the house goes still again.
My inhale feels like a scream in the silent room.
As I slouch in the desk chair, the muscles in my neck twinge from how tense I’ve been, a thin trail of sweat running from my temple.
Rolling my shoulders, I crack my neck. Okay.
Time to get back to work. I jot down the estimated run time and move back to my tablet.
Haunted houses, haunted houses, haunted houses.
That’s what I need to think about, not how badly I want to watch her fuck herself.
Not how desperately I want to lick arousal off her, and then whatever toy she was using.
The whirring sound clicks back on.
Oh.
What’s this?
Love an encore performance. Noting the start time, I listen to her move through the cycles, this round far more quickly, and again write down when the vibrator clicks off.
Again, I’m a tense, twitching mess, my cock throbbing in my pants.
Is it creepy to masturbate to the sound of her getting off?
My cock says no; good sense says it toes the line.
Side-eyeing the notebook, I contemplate the ethics of my data collection.
Definitely a little stalker-y.
But it’s been that or let things slide through my sieve of a brain, and when I only get to see her a time or two a year at most, I can’t risk forgetting. It’s not so much creeping as memory building. I’ll go with that. And I’ll show her eventually.
Tenth wedding anniversary.
Maybe fifteenth.
Cracking my knuckles, I regroup. I sketch two lines before the noise starts again. Though it does nothing to help the strain in my cock, I have to smile at the sound.
· · ·
INSATIABLE.
I write the word in all caps, underline it, then drop my notebook on the bed beside me.
She’s been going for almost an hour. It’s been a good seven minutes since the vibrator shut off for the last time, though, so I think she’s closed up shop for the night.
I’ve lost count of how many times that thing’s flipped on and off.
Around the twenty-minute mark, I gave up on work and lay on my bed, the headboard of which is along Margot’s wall.
At this point I’m nothing but a raging erection, barely even human anymore.
Checking my phone, it seems like we’re up to ten minutes.
If I want any chance of sleeping tonight, I’m going to have to take care of this situation.
Tugging down the front of my sweatpants, I grip my cock, giving it a rough stroke.
Thick and pulsing, there’s already arousal beading at the tip.
I wish Margot were here, even if she didn’t touch me.
Her gaze would be enough; knowing she’s watching me the next best thing to her body on mine.
Spitting in my hand, I begin to jerk in earnest. Falling into a fantasy of her here, watching me, is effortless.
Eyes closed, I picture her face and the hungry look she gets when she’s aroused.
Lost to pleasure, it takes me a moment to realize her vibrator is running again.
I bite back a groan, a zing of delight shooting up my spine.
I’m not stopping. Technically, she joined me this time.
This is pure coincidence, two desperate people chasing their pleasure alone together.
Go to her.
She knows where to find me.
Blood rushes in my ears, my strokes faster, I’m teetering the edge. Head back against the pillow, I picture her face, her tits. The way she’d say—
“I see you’ve reached a new level of creeper.”
I startle upright. My erection smacks against my stomach, orgasm forgotten.
Margot leans against the door frame in an oversized T-shirt and slouchy socks.
If she’s wearing shorts, they’re too small to see.
Her hair is unruly, a halo around her head, the hall light casting an angelic glow, while her face remains shadowed.
“Me?” I tug my sweatpants up, heart pounding. “This is the second time you’ve watched me get off. This creep show goes both ways, buttercup.”
Ignoring my retort, she steps into the room. The swing of her hips as she moves toward the bed promises trouble, and I want every bit. She stops at the foot, sizing me up where I lean against the headboard.