Page 78 of Deceitful Vows

28

ZOYA

My climb into my bed takes longer than usual. I was a little generous with my nips when I cracked open the bottle of vodka I purchased with the hope it would pre-empt celebratory drinks for the position I was meant to secure today.

It would have been commiseration drinks if I hadn’t run into Shevi.

That brief encounter gave me something to celebrate, and I never do anything in halves—particularly when my bed is mere feet from my chosen drinking location.

I’m not close to blackout drunk. The buzz is almost as nice as the one Andrik’s hand created earlier.

Almost.

My body has been thrumming with unexploited restlessness for hours. I want to blame the thickening of my veins on my first contact with a member of my sister’s inner circle in years, but that would be a lie.

The thud of my pulse is sexually related. The heat between my legs announces it, not to mention my head’s constant reminder tonight that I have a drawer of apparatuses at my disposal, so I don’t need a man to take care of the thrill.

Although annoyed my needs can’t take a step back for just one day, I also understand why that is the case. My morals dip when I’m tipsy, but they’re wholly obliterated when I’m horny.

If I want any chance of working past my confusion, I need to take the edge off.

Before I met Andrik, I self-stimulated regularly. Often multiple times a day. Now I’m on a climax drought that has me wishing I asked Dr. Hemway for some recommendations when he mentioned creams for dryness.

A tube of lube may be the only way I will get the vault back open after Andrik sealed it shut so cruelly earlier today. I was right there, on the cusp of orgasm, and then he took away all my surf gear and forced me to find my own way back to shore.

Perhaps that’s what the extra thump of my pulse is?

Maybe I’m not horny.

Perhaps it is solely fury keeping my head clouded with confusion.

Nope.

The only thing I am is a liar. The quickest brush of my fingertip over my panties-covered pussy proves this. My clit is primed and ready to go, and despite my belief I’d be dryer than the Sahara, the faintest sliver of dampness coats my index finger.

I’m wet and, for once, unashamed by this.

I don’t need a man to climax, and it isn’t like Andrik owns my orgasms. He doesn’t even own me, so how can he claim possession of something that is a part of me?

He can’t.

Ignoring the screaming protests of my body that a solo trek will never feel as good as a fire-sparking coupling, I slant my head to peer out my partially cracked-open bedroom door.

I don’t know who I am looking for. I’ve lived alone for years. There’s just been a weird feeling in the air over the last couple of weeks. Almost like I am being watched.

To ensure that isn’t the case, I plug in the dirtbox Mikhail gifted me four weeks ago to ensure it doesn’t lose charge like it did when I turned up at Nikita’s work unannounced earlier today.

Once its flashes announce it is in operation, I slide my hand back between my legs so fast that vodka isn’t the sole cause of my dizziness. I hate that I’m already wet enough to darken the crotch of my panties with a shadow, but you wouldn’t know that for how fast I direct my fingers to my clit. My motivation to bring myself to climax seems more about proving to myself that I still have what it takes to be pleasured, that I don’t need a man to make me feel good—especially not a taken one.

After tugging off my panties, I slide two fingers between the folds of my pussy, slicking them with the wetness building more rapidly than any previous solo journey, before firming my clit more with my thumb.

A lazy smile stretches across my face when they don’t encounter an ounce of resistance when I thrust two fingers inside myself—forever impatient.

They slide in with ease and feel incredibly arousing.

The buzz they spark through me has me hopeful this won’t take long. My first self-pleasing expedition in over a month has nothing to do with pleasure and everything to do with needing sleep.

I’ll never be able to help Nikita purchase the breathing machine Grampies needs to live pain-free if I turn up to an interview looking like a zombie.

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