Page 11 of Slay All The Way

“Yeah, I can’t believe they don’t even have a real grocery store here, just some pathetic little market. Can you imagine? This place is a joke,” he scoffs, then laughs. “I mean, come on, who the hell still sells hand-knit scarves like that’s some kind of luxury?”

I grind my teeth, scrubbing the last plate a little too hard. I know exactly what he’s talking about: the market we visited earlier. He didn’t even want to be there; that much was clear. The way he zoned out and treated me, unwilling to even show the slightest bit of interest or respect for all the thought and time I put into planning this vacation. Now, here he is, mocking the place like it’s beneath him. He thinks everything’s beneath him.

I set the plate on the drying rack, grab the bottle of wine I’d set aside, and pour myself a generous glass. He doesn’t even glance in my direction when I cross the room with my book under my arm. I head toward the bathroom, letting the door click shut with a satisfying sound behind me.

I lock it.

I need a break from him, and this goddamn tension simmering just beneath the surface. The small bathroom feels like a sanctuary in this moment, the one place I know he won’t follow. I flick the dimmer switch, softening the harsh light, then light the few holiday-scented candles I brought with me. Their flickering glow adds warmth to the small room, casting dancing shadows against the wooden walls.

I turn on the faucet, letting the tub fill slowly as I add some of the bath salts and bubble bath the owner of the cabin left us. Vanilla scented steam curls up from the water, beckoning me closer, and within seconds I can already feel my muscles start to relax. Lifting the glass to my lips, I take a long sip of wine, the cool liquid contrasting the heat building inside me. Not from the bath, though. No, this is something else entirely. Something darker, more thrilling.

I slide my hands to the hem of my shirt and peel it over my head, my mind wandering back to the thought that has been gnawing at me since we arrived here: someone’s watching me. I know it. It’s irrational, sure, but I can feel it. Maybe it’s just the isolation of this place, the dense woods wrapping around the cabin like it’s protecting something—or someone.

Or maybe it’s the way I felt someone’s eyes on me last night, a protective gaze that left me both afraid and excited.

My bra drops to the floor next, the fabric soft as it brushes my skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake. I push down my pants, and my heart races. If someone is out there, if those eyes are on me, they’re seeing everything. I move slowly, deliberately. Mybody responding naturally to the idea, to the thought of putting on a show.

For who? I don’t know, but I’m fucking enjoying it.

I slip into the bath, hissing as the hot water slides up my skin. It envelopes me, cocooning me in warmth that chases away the bitter cold that’s seeped into my bones, but it’s not enough. I need more. I close my eyes, letting my head rest against the back of the tub, and that’s when I can feel him—whoever he is—out there. Watching.

I should feel scared, any normal woman would. I should want to cover up, to hide my nakedness from this stranger, but instead, I want to give him more.

After all, at least this stranger even acknowledges me.

My legs shift under the water, the ripples teasing across my skin as I spread them, just slightly. My hand trails down my stomach, fingers brushing over my belly, and I take a sharp breath. The window next to me is fogging from the heat, but I can make out a shadow outside, something darker against the night. It could be anything.Or anyone.

Sitting up, I open the window, welcoming the sharp bite of the cold air against my overheated skin. The contrast makes my nipples harden, the chill prickling across my chest, and I bite my lip as I sink back into the heat of the bath. I let my hand slide lower, fingers finding the sensitive flesh between my legs. The thought of him out there—watching—sends a jolt through me.

I close my eyes, letting the images play out in my mind. He’s there, just beyond the window, touching himself, stroking himself while he watches me. Fuck, it’s dirty. It’s so wrong, and yet it’s the hottest thing I’ve ever imagined. My fingers circle around my clit, slow at first, teasing, drawing out the sensation. The heat from the bath rises to meet the cold air from outside, mixing into something intoxicating, and I lose myself in it.

A faint sound catches my attention. I open my eyes, glancing at the ledge of the window. There, glistening under the moonlight, is a large icicle, long and thick, like some twisted offering. My pulse quickens. That wasn’t there before.

He put it there. Like a small and intimate gift.

I rise from the tub, the water cascading down my body. The chill in the air makes my skin tingle, heightening every sensation. I grab the icicle, holding it firmly in my hand. My mind races with the possibilities, and my body aches for something more, something different.

Something colder.

I return to the tub, bending over the edge so my ass is facing the window. The water sloshes against the porcelain as I position myself. The icicle is smooth in my hand, slippery from the condensation as I guide it down. The moment it touches me, I gasp, the cold an electric shock against my heat. I run the cool piece of ice across my pussy, spreading its melted water with my arousal before lining it up at my opening and pushing it inside me.

I push it deeper, inch by inch, the cold so intense it burns in the most delicious way. My body tightens around it, the contrast of the cold invading my warmth sending me spiraling into sensation. I move it slowly at first, letting myself adjust, letting the coolness spread through me, before pushing it further. My fingers tremble as I grip it, my eyes fixated on the darkness beyond the window as the pleasure builds with every thrust, the slick sound of it moving in and out of me only adding to the twisted thrill.

It feels like him. Like his eyes are devouring me from outside, and I’m giving him a show, every movement meant just for him. My breaths come faster, shallower, my body shaking from the intensity of it all. The cold only makes the pleasure sharper, each thrust driving me closer to the edge I crave so badly.

My back arches, and I cry out, my hips grinding against the edge of the tub as I push the icicle deeper, harder. The coolness is addictive, numbing yet so painfully good. I can’t stop. The sensations are overwhelming, and I can almost hear his breath mingling with mine, feel his presence, his pleasure matching mine as we lose ourselves in this shared moment.

The window is open, the night air biting at my exposed skin, and I shiver, not from the cold, but from the relentless wave of pleasure rolling through me. The icicle slides in and out effortlessly, each movement more intense than the last, the coolness only heightening every pulse of need. I am lost in it, lost in him, lost in the idea that this is what he wanted all along.

And I am giving it to him. All of it. Every last piece of me.

I gasp, my body tightening as I edge closer, the sensations too much, too good, too cold, too hot. The world blurs around me, and I lose myself completely, the pleasure crashing over me like a tidal wave.

But I’m not done. Not yet. I push the icicle deeper, the coldness inside me an addictive ache, as I ride the line between pleasure and pain. The window is open, and I know he’s still watching.

And I don’t care.

I want him to see all of me.

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