He gasps, leaning forward, dropping the picture as he fists the duvet on the bed in both hands, balling it up. His back arches, his head thrown back as he lets out a low, moaning wail, and I watch in horrified fascination as his cock jerks, spasming in the air as if seeking his touch.
His entire body shudders, and he sinks to his knees, burying his face in the bed as his body twitches, his cock still jerking, but nothing more happens. I stare, watching his shoulders shake as if he’s sobbing, and I don’t understand.
Even I know that’s not how that’s supposed to go. He looks miserable, and I have the sudden, driving urge to go into the room, to reach for him and comfort him. Even—to help him in some other way.
What the fuck, Noelle?
I jerk away from the door, horrified at the direction my thoughts are headed in. Before he can catch me, I hurry towards the stairs, going down them as quietly as possible. I’m half-afraid I’ll hear his footsteps behind me, but I make it into my room, shutting the door behind me as I try to catch my breath.
What the hell was that?
I feel confused, unsettled—and something else, too, something that I don’t want to admit. I try to force it out of my head, to ignore it as I get ready for bed, but it lingers.
Alexandre is strange, and he scares me, but he intrigues me too. He makes me feel a sort of sympathy for him that feels unfamiliar and wrong, like I want to comfort him, help him—but at the same time, I know he’s not a good man. A good man would have sent me home as soon as I woke up. A good man wouldn’t know someone like Kaito Nakamura in the first place.
I lay there in the dark, staring up at the ceiling, feeling my heart throb in my chest. The pulse of it feels like it’s spread outwards, through my veins, my skin tight and hot, all the blood and my heartbeat settling between my thighs. My clit feels swollen and achy, and when I shift, squeezing my thighs together, I can feel that I’m wet.
Don’t do it, Noelle. This is bad. This is wrong—
But I can’t sleep. I feel like I can’t catch my breath, like I can’t make the throbbing ache leave me. It just intensifies until my entire body feels aroused, on edge, and my hand slides down the flat of my stomach, my fingers slipping into the edge of my panties.
It’s not that I think touching myself is inherently wrong. I’ve done it before, though I’ve never come. I’ve gotten myself to the very edge of what felt like climax, shivering and tense, little bursts of pleasure echoing across my skin, but I’ve never let it finish. It always felt too out of control, too scary—but I want to. I think of Alexandre upstairs, shuddering and twitching with his denied orgasm, and I bite my lip.
I shouldn’t touch myself thinking of him. But—what if it’s out of revenge,I tell myself.You’re not pleasuring yourself to the thought ofhim; you’re doing it to the thought of giving yourself what he apparently can’t have. You’re trapped here in his house, but you get pleasure, and he doesn’t.
It’s an excuse. I know it is, deep down. But my fingers are already sliding over my slick clit, my wet arousal flooding my pussy, and I clamp my other hand over my mouth, muffling my moans as I start to rub myself.
It feels so fucking good. Better than it ever has before. My hips buck up into my hand, wanting more, and I bite my lip hard as pleasure radiates through me, my clit throbbing under my fingers. I rub and circle, feeling the pleasure build and rise, gasping with each touch. My breath comes hard and fast, just like his did, and I can’t help picturing him—that body that looked carved out of stone, his broad chest furred with soft dark hair, his taut jaw, the look of intense pleasure in his face. And—oh god—his cock, so long and hard and thick, the kind of cock that I know would probably feel so good, filling me up until nothing else could satisfy me.
“No—” I moan into my palm, knowing where this is going, but unable to stop myself. The fantasy wraps itself around me, the thought of my fingers trailing down his chest as he pushes into me. I roll onto my stomach, burying my face into my pillow as I reach between my thighs with my other hand and push two fingers into my wet pussy.
I clench around them instantly, hot and wet and so tight that I’m not sure a cock like Alexandre’s could even fit. I moan into my pillow, imagining it. Imagining him groaning as he pushed inside, telling me how tight I am and how good my pussy feels. Only pleasure on his face, not pain, those long-fingered hands gripping my hips, his dark hair falling into my face, all that tortured guilt washed away as he takes me, slow and sure, filling me up—
“Fuck—” I feel my body tightening, on the edge. I have a moment’s fear of going over the edge, of discovering what comes next, but just like the fantasy, I feel incapable of stopping it. Alexandre is fucking me hard now in my imaginings, hips thrusting with that same eager, passionate ferocity that he’d touched himself with earlier, but this time he doesn’t stop. This time he holds me against him, driving deep, his teeth in my neck and lips sucking at my throat as I claw down his back and come hard—
“Oh god! Oh god, oh god,fuuuck—” I bite the pillow, the down swallowing up my moans, grinding and bucking onto my hands as my first orgasm rolls through me like a tidal wave. I writhe and twist, riding the most incomprehensible pleasure I’ve ever felt, and in my fantasy, Alexandre is coming too. His groans are nothing but pleasure, the heat of him filling me as his cock thrusts into me, our climaxes coming together.
I lay there, whimpering with the aftershocks, my hands clenched between my thighs, and slowly, the pleasure fades. With it, so does the fantasy, disappearing like ash—and it’s instantly followed by a thick, hot wash of shame.
Oh my god.I came for the first time thinking aboutAlexandrefucking me, the man keeping me captive, who claims to own me, that I’m hispet. A man who is clearly unwell, who has issues beyond anything I can begin to imagine.
And I’d fantasized about him.
“What is wrong with me?” I moan, turning onto my side, clenching my eyes tight. I feel like crying, but even that feels too self-indulgent after what I’ve just done.
I don’t have long to think about it, though. My body is exhausted from the day and the release, and even as I fight to not fall asleep, it comes quickly for me anyway. It’s disjointed and fitful, strange guilty dreams filtering through it, and at one point, I’m certain that I open my eyes to see Alexandre’s tall, lean figure standing there in the dark, swathed in the burgundy dressing gown, staring down at me with a haunted gaze.
It’s only a dream,I tell myself.
And then I fall back to sleep.
11
ALEXANDRE
Since I returned to Paris, the only times I’ve left the apartment have been to get food. Since Noelle arrived, I’ve had to restock more often than before. Everything I bring home she devours, which I find strangely gratifying—she was painfully thin when she’d been left here, and she eats as if she’s never had real food before. It feels as if I’m caring for her, this pet that Kaito decided I should be entrusted with, but my other feelings crowd that sense of gratification away far too often, leaving me feeling as if I’m nothing but a danger to her.
Today is no different. She hasn’t been here long, but already I can see and feel her mark on the apartment. I should be grateful for it, for the place is clean, fresh-smelling, and full of sunshine for the first time since I left, but all I can feel is resentment. She does things differently than Anastasia did, something that no one else would likely notice, butIdo. I notice the way items are moved around a bit, as if she put a book or a stack of papers or a statue aside to clean and then set it back in a different place. I feel her presence in the house in a way that makes me angry sometimes, because she isn’t Anastasia. It feels as if without my little doll there, there should be no light or happiness or goodness in the house. I find myself closing the curtains that Noelle opens, knocking things out of place, purposefully trying to destroy the pristine beauty she’s tried to bring back to my home.