He’d opened his eyes, and I was already getting consumed by them when I latched onto my tiny, remaining shred of self-survival and dragged myself out.
I pulled my hand out from underneath his and stepped back, heart in my throat, pulse racing with pure adrenaline.
“You’re right. That should be enough. I hope it helped.” Cool, calm, collected. “Anyway, I—I’ll see you tomorrow. Good night.”
For the second time that week, I fled to my room and locked the door behind me. I closed my eyes and leaned against the cool wood until my heartbeats slowed to a normal pace.
What was wrong with me? I’d never gotten so worked up over a guy before. I even visited a sex therapist once in case my low libido was cause for concern, but she’d reassured me it was normal. Not everyone experienced sexual attraction all the time or in the same way.
Unless, apparently, they lived with Christian Harper. I couldn’t pinpoint what had changed.
I’d always thought he was attractive, but my reactions to him hadn’t been this intense or frequent until he found me after the first note. Sure, the night of the gala had been intense, but I thought that’d been a fluke.
Maybe my brain was confused and thought our fake relationship was real? Or maybe I was mistaking gratitude for something deeper.
Whatever the reason, I wished the strange feelings would go away.
I brushed my teeth and climbed into bed, but sleep remained elusive thanks to the persistent, throbbing ache in my core.
Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore.
I slipped my hand between my legs, and my mouth parted in a silent gasp at the first brush of my fingers over my clit.
I didn’t need sexual release often, but that one touch ignited months of pent-up frustration until the only thing that mattered was chasing sweet, heady relief.
My back arched off the mattress as I played with my clit with one hand and my nipple with the other. I was hypersensitive after not touching myself for so long, and sparks of pleasure raced through my body, lighting every nerve ending on fire.
Small whimpers mingled with the slippery sounds of my fingers against my clit while a familiar erotic film unfolded in my mind.
Me tied up, the rough scratch of ropes abrading my skin while a faceless stranger had his way with me.
Hands collaring my throat, bites on my skin, and a hard, relentless rhythm that wrenched inhibited screams from my throat.
Dark fantasies I only indulged in beneath the cover of night.
I’d never disclosed them to previous lovers because I’d been too nervous to share them and because I didn’t trust them to carry out the scenarios the way I wanted.
Ironically, in my fantasies, it was never about the man. My phantom lover had remained faceless all these years, an amorphous figure who didn’t require an identity to provide me with what I wanted—the safe loss of control and an off switch for the ceaseless worries plaguing my brain. Nothing but the sharp stings of pleasure and adjacent pain.
But as wetness soaked my fingers and the pressure built between my thighs, the faceless figure came into focus for the first time since my fantasies started.
Golden brown eyes. Lethally soft smile. A heated brush of lips against mine and a ruthless grip that dug into my skin with just enough pressure to make my head swim.
The knot of pressure exploded with such force I didn’t have time to scream before I tumbled over the edge, swept up in wave after wave of orgasmic bliss with nothing to hold on to except visions of whiskey, rough hands, and a man I shouldn’t want but couldn’t help crave.