Page 54 of Cook

“Fuck you,” I growled to myself.

The hot water ran cold and splattered icy water across me until my teeth chattered. The hot water heater here was shit, but still, how long had I been in here? My body ached with the cold. Rightly so.

I deserved the pain.

Maddie

Lying in bed, I stilledmy hands over my pussy, the languid sensation of the orgasm’s remnants rushing through my blood.

Another moan echoed somewhere in the house. I craned my neck off the pillow, listening. I already knew the rumble of Cook’s voice, how it rattled from his chest. The old pipes pumped under the house, rattling the floorboards, and water spat out in the shower. The walls were thin, the floors old and needing to be replaced, so I heard every sound. Including how Cook fucked himself because of me.

I was anything but naïve; Signora made damn sure of that. But I’d learned that allowing myself to come made pain disappear. For years, I fought against any pleasure, feeling guilty for finding release in something so violent. I’d never enjoyed the clients, but I’d definitely learned how to read the clients and what to do to cope.

Comingwascoping in many cases, and I suspected my “responsiveness” was the reason Signora kept me around for so long.

Even if Cook pulled away from our kiss and acted like he didn’t want me to call him Daddy, I knew he wanted me, or at least my body.

I wanted him too. My one sharp orgasm while picturing his face proved that, and I wanted more. I started to touch myself again.

Spreading my thighs apart, I pressed my fingers to my swollen clit. A primal instinct had taken over me when I first touched myself after kissing Cook. What an idiot. I shouldn’t have done that, but he made me feel protected. Warm. Even loved. I waited for him tospeak to me day and night—waited for him to look at me. I had never handed myself over to a person like I wanted to hand myself over to Cook. Many men had touched me and used me without my consent, but I would give my consent to Cook.

I trusted him. I wanted him.

I needed him.

I was sure my life would never make sense without him.

What I did to myself now—what I did moments before—I had never touched myself like that. Sometimes Tommy G. or another John would ask me to touch myself. Those orgasms were practiced, fake, me fumbling over myself while watching their response, trying to move how they liked.

But this pleasure was mine.

Free from the past and only focused on me. What I wanted.

Cook must’ve liked it too if he had to take care of himself. My strokes had grown more frantic to the rhythm of his moans, and I waited until it sounded like he was close before I flicked the little bundle harder and drove myself to oblivion. Now, the moans had faded, but I could close my eyes and imagine him thrusting into me. I rubbed my clit and then spread my folds, slipping two fingers deep inside.

I wanted more.

Iwantedhim.

How would he feel? Thick and hard inside me. How would he touch me? Gentle or demanding? How would he sound right in my ear with his weight pressing down on me? How would I move to his rhythm, and him to mine?

With a gasp, I came again, shuddering from head to toe. The bed creaked with me. The pleasure wound around my throat, and I moaned. Pleasure overtook me until I was writhing like a palm tree caught in a hurricane.

I slumped back in bed. Each ragged breath burned the back of my throat. My pussy yawned and wept, hungry to be filled. I wanted Cook inside me, twisting my orgasms and sucking the breath from my lungs.

A roar of a motorcycle sprung up outside. Rolling out of bed, Istumbled over my jelly-like legs. The motorcycle growl grew louder, and I threw open my bedroom door to run across the living room. Cook was leaving, tearing away from the house.

“Cook!” I screamed, but the house kept my bellow within the walls.

Where was he was going? Why didn’t he take me with him?

Grabbing the camera he gave me earlier, I lifted it to my eye and took a quick picture as his motorcycle pulled away from the house. He disappeared into the desert, only orange dust left in his wake. I lowered the camera, waiting for a picture to spit out like the one my mom had when I was a kid, but it didn’t.

I needed him to show me how to develop the film. He said he would. Tomorrow.

Why would he leave?

What had I done wrong?

---