Page 79 of Deceitful Vows

Yeah, right.

Even when it is of my own doing, I like to feel desired.Validated.

I want to be wanted.

It is an annoying crutch I’ve struggled to give up since childhood.

I doubt it will ever fully go away. I just wish I could mimic how desired I felt when it was Andrik’s hand on me instead of my own.

He knew precisely where to touch and for exactly how long. It was like he could read my body and understand its every desire.

Although it is fleeting, he truly makes me feel wanted when his hands are on me.

Cherished, even.

An unwanted shudder shakes my thigh when a stern tweak of my clit has me recalling something he said earlier.

Who owns this cunt, darling?

“Not you,” I murmur, more angry at myself than him that he is leading what is meant to be a solo expedition.

He shouldn’t be hard to hate. The guilt he makes me feel after every exchange should fester in my heart until it boils over. But no matter how hard I’ve tried to forget him the past month, he continually pops up. Whether in my dreams or while speaking to Mikhail before he railroaded me without warning again today, he always takes center stage.

I can’t let him have this too.

This is the one thing I have all to myself. I don’t have to share it with anyone.

I slide my fingers in and out of myself while flicking my clit with my opposite hand. Pleasure jolts through me over and over, but before it can crest and then crash through me, the anticipation I’m attempting to ignite dulls to a simmer, and the urge floats away.

As I drift my eyes to the drawer that’s impossible to open without a creak loud enough to wake my neighbors, I push my fingers in and out of my pussy at a frantic pace.

Is that the issue? Do I want to be fucked instead of made slow, lazy love to like I was after Andrik cooked and fed me?

The memory of his attentiveness that night spreads a rush of heat across my chest and puckers my nipples.

“Yesss,” I moan, hopeful.

I work myself faster,harder.I fuck myself with my fingers until stars form and my thighs shake. It is an almost clumsy embrace since my woozy limbs can’t keep up with the frantic pace my body is demanding. Each flick, pinch, and thrust brings me closer and closer to the edge.

They just never fully push me over it.

I can’t climax by myself anymore, and the frustration has me on the verge of bursting into tears.

With the aggression of a man who forgot to take his little blue pill before his fiftieth birthday sex, I yank my hand out of my pants and then throw an arm over my eyes.

I will not cry over this any more than I’d cry over a man. I just need a moment to gather my bearings and to let the alcohol fumbling my movements burn off enough to find the right rhythm.

I’m not broken.

I am simply drunker than I first realized.

“I can do this. I can make myself come. Andrik doesn’t own my orgasms.”

My pulse thumps as loudly as my shouted chant when a deep accented voice says, “Do I need to take you over my knee again,??????”

As my arm falls from my face, my eyes rocket open. I can’t see a damn thing. It is dark in my room in general. Tonight, it is pitch black. Not even the streetlights that reflect off the building across from mine sneak through the cracks of my curtains.

Certain my ears are playing tricks on me, I remain quiet while endeavoring to adjust my eyes to the dark conditions.

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