Page 32 of Wilt

If he wants a show, he can have one. See, I can get myself off better than he can. Honestly, I don’t know if that’s true, but I don’t really care. I’ll fake it if necessary, just to piss him off.

I throw the quilt off and part my thighs, touching my pussy again, sliding my fingers against my folds, outer lips, inner lips, shivering at the sensations erupting across my body. They’re mild but there, sweet and building, and I move up, rubbing my clit hard with two wet fingers.

“Oh, yes…” I whisper the words and close my eyes, remembering the way he moved over me. I try to mimic his ministrations, falling into something more than just masturbation, a fantasy I don’t let come to focus. Instead, it’s just sensations, my focus on my pussy, my hand moving a little faster, a little harder.

As I work myself, slipping through my wet flesh, over the nub of nerve endings and down, I dip inside, pushing a finger in as I use my thumb on my clit, playing myself to keep that beat he started alive and singing.

My body heat rockets up, little waves of pleasure radiating out to every inch of my skin. It’s like I’m an instrument being played, and each strum brings me closer to hitting that final, perfect note. With each stroke of my thumb, each thrust of my finger, I sink down into the pleasures he started, that the tensions of being naked brought.

Then he’s there, coming into focus. Right there, in my mind.

This is a sudden fantasy made real, but in my head, I’m in charge. He’s got me pinned, naked, touching me just for his pleasure, which brings me unexpected waves of heat. He spreads me out and dips, licking a path down my stomach, showing everyone I’m his goddess and he’s my slave, that I’m chained to him in turn, so finely tuned that—

“What the fuck are you doing?”

A wave of horror hits me as the door to my room hits the wall, ricocheting off the frame to show the man crackling with fury standing there. We lock eyes, and Nikolai takes me in, sweeping his gaze over me, spread wide, hand buried between my thighs.

He doesn’t miss a beat, making it to me in three large strides, and wraps his hand around my wrist like a manacle, ripping my hand away from my body. I forgot. Somehow, in my great fuck you to him watching me through the little camera, I forgot and fell into some convoluted, fucked up fantasy.

Now, here he is, like I summoned him from some lust-soaked level of hell.

Head reeling, I can’t move. He’s half on the bed in jeans and a black t-shirt. It should diminish him somehow, like the beautiful suits he wears give him a gloss of dark elegance and appeal, but no. They don’t. They’re just icing.

This rougher version is hotter, harder, with a feral edge. Tattoos snake down his arms, and with seemingly no effort, he pins both my hands behind my head, taking hold of my face to turn it to him.

“Your orgasms are mine.” The words are harsh and quiet, the flatness in their center is pure steel. “They belong to me, just like you do. You get off whenIsay you can.”

I sneer, almost gathering the nerve to spit in his face. “Go to hell.”

His gaze sweeps my mouth. “You’re a special kind of hell, wrapped in a veneer of heaven.”

“You disgust me.”

“I really don’t.” Nikolai slides a denim covered leg over mine, and his hand travels down to capture my breast, playing and twisting my sensitive, hardened nipple.

After a moment, he moves lower, slowly, eyes not moving from mine, and even though I try and hide it, my breathing hitches. It comes in short, erratic sips as he slides his hand lower, my belly fluttering. He’s hard against my hipbone; his cock is big and stiff, pressing into me through the confines of his jeans. “Tell me you weren’t fantasizing about me.”

“You—” I stop. “You disgust me!”

He doesn’t look away as his fingers slide over my pussy, and I moan. I can’t stop myself. I’m slick, soaked, and he knows it. As he touches me, fingertips whispering against my swollen flesh, he smiles. It’s brief, but its there. We both know the truth.

There’s something wrong with me, in me, how I’m made. There has to be. I want him. I shouldn’t. I can’t, and yet I do. Maybe I’m a monster, too.

“I definitely don’t disgust you when I do this, do I?” He pushes a finger inside, gliding easily through my wetness, and I cry out, hips raising, trying to catch some,anyfriction. Ripping my face from his hold, I scream, pushing at him, hitting him to let me go.

Laughing, he rolls away. “Fuck, you’re a baby kitten, Rose. Spitting, mewling, eyes barely open. Claws so small they can’t even begin to hurt.” His laughter fades as he hauls me up to sit, coming up close. “The only thing is, they annoy me, and you donotwant to annoy me.”

I shove at him, white hot ice pouring down my spine, and I jump up as he leans back on his hands. It’s a warning, him sitting there, seemingly relaxed. A small part of me knows that but right then, I don’t care. I want to scream the place down. I want to make him crumble into a million pieces.

“Why me?”

His eyebrows furrow. “Why you what?”

“Why take me? I know you’re a bad man.”

His face contorts, like I said something utterly ridiculous. “I never once denied that, Rose. Stop acting like a child.”

“Compared to your great age, I am!” I’m yelling at him now, trying to keep hysteria from my voice. “What are you? Nearly fifty?”

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