Page 44 of The Good Girl Effect
The rest of my clothes are balled up in my arm, and I drop them to the floor as I stare up at the ceiling. I should feel ashamed for this, but I can’t help myself. With my toes curling against the hardwood floor, I rub fiercely on my aching clit.
It’s not enough. It dulls the pain of arousal, but it doesn’t give me what I want.
Imagining it’s still his body against my back instead of this door, I turn my head, trying to find the scent of his cologne in my braided hair. Then I curl two fingers deep inside me.
It’s still not what I want, but it’s enough to feed my imagination, to imagine that it’s him thrusting himself insideme. It’s him touching me while I’m bound and strung from the ceiling. It’s him finding pleasure in my body.
I know he wanted it. I could feel the evidence of his desire. So I search my memory for the sensation of his hard cock pressed up against me, seeking friction in my body.
Biting my lower lip, I penetrate myself in rapid thrusts, chasing this trail of pleasure. My free hand pinches my nipple through my bra, remembering the way he did, imagining it’s his hand there now. With a muffled moan, my body begins to spasm, seizing in this tight, almost torturous sensation. I have never come so fast in my life. I can hardly breathe as the waves crash over me again and again.
The shame settles in after the orgasm crests and fades. What on earth is wrong with me? Was it just because what we did upstairs was so erotic and sensual? Or is it because something about Jack St. Claire ignites a fire inside me?
I have always found him attractive, but now it’s clear the chemistry between us is so much more than that.
When my body feels somewhat normal again, I peel myself away from the door and sneak into the bathroom. I can’t even look at myself in the mirror as I wash up and get ready for bed.
The entire time, I’m writing a letter to him in my mind, voicing everything I want to say about tonight and what I want after tonight.
Jack was spooked by his own desire, afraid he was losing control, and I intend to convince him that there’s nothing to be afraid of.
When I go back into my room, I sit down at the desk, and I write the letter.
Dear Jack,
What are you so afraid of?
If you think because I am your employee and your daughter’s caretaker that I am not also just a woman who feels and desires and craves the same things that any other woman does, then you’re wrong.
I know you think it’s inappropriate for us to continue with what we did tonight, but I disagree.
If you let me show you, I will prove to you just how good I can be. I can follow orders. I can be submissive. I can draw a line between what we do during the day and what we do at night.
As one of your employees, I can keep things professional. I will do my job, and I will do it well.
But after dark, I don’t want to be your employee. I want to be the one who submits to you, who kneels, who obeys. If you don’t want sex to be involved, then I can show restraint too—the same way you did tonight.
Because I know you have so much more to show me, and I am eager to experience it all. There is no one else I’d be more comfortable with.
So I am begging you, please show me more.
Staring down at my letter, I bite my lip as I consider how to sign it. Just signing my name doesn’t feel right anymore. After tonight…after feeling what it’s like to be praised by him, I realize that I want to sign it a different way.
Taking a deep breath, I hold my pen as I scribble out the last line.
Your good girl.
With that, I fold up the letter and take it back up the stairs. No longer afraid of telling Jack what is on my mind, I slide the letter under the door.
I’m playing with fire. I know it, but for the first time in my life, I want to feel what it’s like to get burned.
I flip an omelet onto Bea’s plate, sprinkling it with salt and cheese before delivering it to where she sits at the table in her school uniform. Her tiny legs swing under her seat, and I find it so adorable. I pat her head affectionately as I set the plate down.
“Bon appétit.”
“Merci,Camille,” she replies.
Bea is obviously fluent in French, and I notice the way she’s eager to use it with me when we’re at home. In public and at school, she speaks it without restraint. For some reason, Jack says it’s off-limits at home, and I wish I understood why.
