I strip off my skirt and stand in front of the mirror. How dare he tell me to shave?
Still. I do look like a virgin, a teenager who’s never had a man see her naked and therefore had no reason to shave. I’d look more like a worldly woman if I shaved it all off.
That must be what he’s used to.
The thought bothers me more than it should, just like it pissed me off when he said he kept himself ready for fucking. Who says that to his wife? How many women has he fucked? How many has he given the kind of pleasure he gave me, and more? He talks like a guy who has gotten his share of pussy. How many have his fingers been inside? His tongue? His cock? How many sluts have gotten down on their knees and worshipped that cock I’ve never even seen? I’ve only seen the outline straining against his pants, but other girls have seen it bare, have seen it “ready for fucking.” Other girls have had it in their mouths, buried inside their core.
Jealousy burns through me, and I feel sick at the thought of those girls touching him, sucking him, spreading their legs for him, coming on his cock. The thought nauseates me, but it also makes the ache between my legs pulse stronger. I slide a hand down my belly, opening myself to the mirror. My slit is pink and shiny with arousal. I stroke my clit, imagining King’s lips on it the way they caressed that spoon. I move my fingers around it, the way he did, until I find the rhythm and pressure he used that took me right to the edge. When I picture his cock pushing up into me, my core squeezes, and relief floods through me as I cum.
The moment I finish, regret floods in. I hurry away from the mirror, stepping into the closet to pick out something for tonight. Shame burns along my limbs, through my blood, in the satisfied pulse between my thighs. I won’t think of him when I do that again. He doesn’t deserve my undivided desire. Not when he’s wanted, and given in to his desire for, probably dozens of women.
I slam the door shut on that thought, that ugly emotion. I don’t care how many people he’s fucked. It means nothing to me. And so does he.
When I emerge from the bedroom, the table is clean. King stands at the sink, washing the spoons. I bite my lip when I think of where one of them has been, how he used it. Watching him fuck me with it, watching it come out of me slick with my arousal, watching him suck the taste of me off it like it was the rarest delicacy…
Fine, I can admit it was fucking hot, even if I don’t tell him. I can’t deny the truth to myself, and besides, it kept him from touching me, which is always the goal.
He doesn’t turn when I go to the door.
“I’ll be home by morning,” I say.
I want him to say something, though I don’t know what. Maybe I’m expecting him to stop me. Maybe I even want him to. Not because I don’t want to go, but because I want to force his hand. I want him to show weakness like I did, to put us back on even footing.
But he doesn’t even look my way.
I wait a long minute before turning and walking out. I missed dinner with Bianca, but I call her as soon as my driver picks me up, bodyguard in tow.
“He’s the absolute worst,” I rant to Bianca after telling her the basics, leaving out the spooning incident and everything related.
“I can’t believe he took your phone,” she squeals through her laughter. “What is he, your dad?”
A flash of irritation hits me. I open my mouth and then close it again. I’m annoyed at her for talking shit about him, as if he’s my family, someone only I can talk shit about. I’m even more irritated with myself for wanting to defend him. I force a laugh and pretend he’s just some pathetic guy chasing us, like Tommy Fatone. “The sad thing is, I think he’s trying to be.”
At the bar, I have a margarita and dance, but something feels off. I just can’t seem to get into it. After an hour, I find myself sitting at the bar, just tipsy enough to talk to the stranger beside me. He offered to buy me a drink, but I don’t even want one.
“The thing is, I think I’m done going out clubbing,” I say. “I just don’t know what to do instead. Like, this is boring.”
“So, let’s go somewhere else,” he says with a little smile.
I roll my eyes. “I’m serious. I want freedom, but what’s the point, if I’m just going to be free to go dancing? I want to do something big, something important, like my mom did.”
“What’d your mom do?”
“She’s an actress.”
“Anyone I’ve heard of?”
I shake my head and sip my water. I realize it sounds stupid when I say it like that. Why am I even trying to explain it to this stranger, anyway? He’s not going to understand. He doesn’t know what it’s like to sign a contract that signs his whole life away, giving it into someone else’s hands.
I could just go home. It’s not admitting defeat exactly. It’s doing what I want, which is freedom. Much to my irritation, I know that I can’t go home so soon, though. To King, it will look like I want to be there with him, like I don’t want this freedom I’ve fought so hard for. I want him to think I have a glamourous life that he can’t touch, one worth fighting him to get. But as I look around, it all feels empty.
“This scene really is tired,” the man says. “Want to go back to my place?”
“No,” I say, giving him a dirty look. “I’m married.”
He draws back and glances around. “Then why the fuck are you here?”
“Haven’t you been listening to anything I say?” I ask, straightening on my chair.