She no longer acts shy about her body. She no longer lifts her head high in defiance. Her fake it ‘til you make it moments are few and far between. I don't know if it's habit or if it's what she needs when she climbs in the shower in the mornings and her hand runs between her thighs before she even touches the bodywash. Her orgasms don’t seem routine.
It's the times she pulls the dildo from the dresser and sets it up on the table herself that appeal to me the most. It's still its own form of torture and her taunting was right that first time. I do imagine it's me that she's sliding down. I do imagine that I'm the one inside of her. To keep myself from taking what I want, I've convinced myself that it's only a matter of time and that she's also wishing it was me.
But neither one of us has caved. I took her but I can't take that, and she’s not to the point of asking for things to change just yet. I’m biding my time with the hopes that eventually she will. That she will slide that hot, juicy cunt off of that black dildo and crawl up the bed and slide down on top of me. My only worry is that they'll find her before I can.
There are times just the pounding of her feet on the treadmill echoing through the house gets me hotter than I've ever been in my life. But then again, everything about her turns me on. My appeal for her is endless. She can do the exact same thing every single day, and I'm still in awe of how amazingly sexy she is.
I can’t count how many times I’ve waited on the bed for her, with that dildo suction cupped to the table, waiting for her. I groan as I run my hand over my head, making my way into the kitchen. That's what happened this morning. I waited for her to finish her run. She didn't hesitate for a second when she walked inside with her skin glistening from sweat. She watched me with a devious smile on her face and she straddled the toy and got to work. Once again, I came without touching myself, like I always do.
I discovered it leaves me wanting more, but not always in a sexual way. Sometimes I can't fight back those urges. Sometimes I stroke myself off in the shower, painting her with my cum. But I also wish she'd open up and tell me about her life. I'd like to know what her childhood was like. I wonder if it's different from the way I've pictured it in my own mind. I don't ask because I don't want to reciprocate.
I’ve never felt shame about my past, my history, and the childhood I suffered from until her. Before it was a badge of honor, the things that I had survived. I have no doubt telling her about the real me would make her sad. It would make her pity me. I need a lot of things from Raya Reed, but compassion isn't one of them.
Lunch is going to be simple today. Turkey sandwiches, her favorite kind of chips. I toast the bread of her sandwich because she mentioned liking crispy bread at one point. “Goddammit,” I grumble, dropping the hot bread to the plate, the tips of my fingers a little sore from pulling it out of the toaster oven too soon.
My phone rings on the counter. Once again, it's Hollis calling. I don't know why I pick up. I've ignored every single phone call since that time I met him and Nash on the beach. I open my mouth to tell him to fuck off, to quit acting like a sorority sister who needs advice, but then Raya walks in fully nude, her skin still wet in spots she didn't reach with her towel while drying off. My mouth waters to lick those droplets from her skin.
She asked for clothes a while back and as much as the thought of her covering her body annoyed me, I laid out a t-shirt and a pair of sweats one day while she was in the shower. That's where they've sat since. I don't think she wanted the clothes. It was clear she was just trying to determine whether I’d provide them or not.
“I can’t fucking talk right now,” I growl into the phone, my eyes never leaving Raya. She looks at me, her head shaking, and she mouths,it's fine. I don't know why I stay on the phone with him, but a lot of it has to do with the fact that she distracts me anytime we're in the same room. Hell, she distracts me when she's in the other room. Raya Reed is nothing but a distraction and I find myself enjoying not focusing on anything but her.
“What's got you so fucking busy that you've been avoiding my calls?” Hollis snaps as if he has any right to confront me. As if he's some jealous boyfriend wanting to know my whereabouts and what I'm doing.
“You sound like a needy bitch,” I grumble as I move to the fridge to grab the mayo. “I’m building a deck. I don't have time for your shit,” I lie.
“I can help build a deck,” Hollis offers. Hollis is still working under the assumption that we live close by. That my house is just a short car ride from the beach we met on. I know that's where Hollis lives. Neither he nor Nash are as secretive about their lives. But they do what they do for fun, for the thrill of it. They haven't suffered things like I have. They don't have that insistent need to be alone because alone is safe.
“I don't need some gimp-ass bitch slowing me down,” I say.
“I’m not a gimp anymore,” Hollis says. “The cast is already off.”
I take a step back when Raya reaches for the mayo in my hand. We're always keeping that distance between the two of us. I watch as she makes our sandwiches, grinning at how awkward her actions and movements are. She may not have been put in the position to make her own meals before, but she's never been unwilling to help.
“You took your own fucking cast off?”
“No, the doctor took it off,” Hollis explains. “I was completely healed.”
“You must have superpowers then. You still had three weeks last time I saw you like ten days ago.”
“Ten days?” Hollis says. “You fucking idiot. It’s been three and a half weeks since we were at the beach. Have you been high this entire time or something?”
Floored that it's actually been that long all I can manage is a nod. High… that's a good way to explain it. I know I've ordered groceries several times, more often than I normally would, but I just chalk that up to Raya being here and eating more food. Three and a half weeks?
“Listen, asshole, I'm busy,” I say, getting ready to hang up the phone.
“And I'm fucking calling because, for some reason, Angel can't find you.”
“Angel isn't looking for me,” I argue. The man doesn't need me or him or Nash.
“Check your email, you dumbass.” That motherfucker has the nerve to hang up on me.
“A friend of yours?” Raya asks as a piece of turkey dangles between her fingers. I don't answer her as she finishes the sandwich. She turns to face me, questions in her eyes at the silence.
“You didn't yell for help,” I realize out loud.
Her brow furrows. “And risk someone as deranged as you, knowing I'm here?” She gives me a look that says she thinks I'm an idiot before lifting the butter knife to her mouth to lick the mustard off of it. She tosses it in the sink. The metal making a clanking sound simply because she knows it annoys the shit out of me.
I don't say a word as she holds up a plate in front of me. On it is possibly the ugliest fucking sandwich I've ever seen in my life. But I also realize the importance of it. She made me food without being prompted and this may be the first thing she's ever given me besides too many orgasms to count. And all of those are offered without touching.