Page 54 of Wilt

It stayed on me through the spicy oysters with the avocado, right there at the entrance to my pussy, toying with me, teasing.

Then came the steak and the fries that weren’t potato.

“Parsnip,” he said, feeding me bite by bite. Steak and sauce, fries, slender green beans. “Good for you, little Rose.”

More wine to wash it down. Not enough to get drunk, just enough to feel loose. Not that I needed it.

Through it all, he played with my pussy, sliding his fingers into me, working my clit. It was all so borderline orgasmic that when he didn’t make me come, when he whispered an order to pretend to come, I hated him.

I had to do it. I Meg Ryan’d it and pretended to come, but on a more down low, understated rung. Before and after, I had to smile lovingly, laugh and sway into him. Pretend I wanted whatever he did to me, pretend I might love him, pretend I worshiped him.

Some of that came too easily for my liking. Not love, not worship, but the want and the lust and the drunken feel of being in his orbit, his space, having him invade me on every level, make me sing and want to do everything he asked.

I hated that, too.

Now? I pace my room in the remnants of his shirt. The dresses and shoes are gone. I have the choker on still, and I’m not sure why. It’s gorgeous, sure, and it’s the singular most expensive thing I’ve ever worn, but I also know what it means.

It’s a claim, a stake, an announcement of whose property I am.

Nikolai Carter Wilder.

I want to hate it, but I can’t seem to take it off.

My little taste of freedom, if you can call it that, was yesterday and now I’m locked in my room again, pacing a damn hole in the floor, fever high in my blood. It’s a fever of want and need and the fact that I’m so horny, I don’t know what to do.

Every so often, I press my ear against the door, but I can’t hear anything. Occasionally, a voice wafts up when someone passes, but it’s never Nikolai. My heart never beats faster, there’s no shift in the air like when he’s near, and it’s not his voice I hear.

All day he’s stayed away, and I hate him for it.

Last night was bad enough. When we got back, he went from hot and all over me to cold and dismissive. I won’t lie and say it didn’t hurt. I know it shouldn’t. I know I should have thanked whatever higher power I could that he wasn’t trying to sleep with me, but the horrible thing is I wanted, needed, to get off. It was a giant slap in the face to have him turn his back on me, like we’d walked off stage and the play was done.

I close my eyes.

I’m dying inside for his touch. My belly quivers and the throbbing ache between my thighs, the one that keeps me wet, hurting, wound up tight, won’t go away. It just builds. All I can think of is his mouth, his tongue, his fingers, that gorgeous, gorgeous cock.

I keep fantasizing over what it would feel like inside of me. I’d say fuck it and take care of myself if I didn’t think he might be watching. Those threats, all of them, keep running through my head. If it was just a spanking I’d be risking, then…

But I don’t know what he’s capable of.

Or rather, I do.

I just don’t know how far he’ll go, or what side will emerge if I push him the wrong way.

So, I keep my hands away from my pussy and I curse him in my head.

Suddenly, someone knocks on the door and the key turns. I step away from it and pull the shirt around me, crossing my arms. It’s not him. The air isn’t taut, and he really isn’t about to knock.

Sylvie the maid enters, which is odd because I’ve already had most of my meals for the day, and it’s not time for dinner yet. She doesn’t look at me and I go to say hi, but I stop myself.

I’m thinking her not talking to me, not looking my way, has nothing to do with fear or submission and everything to do with her crushing on Nikolai.

Well, hands off. He’s— What? Mine? No, no, no. He’s not mine, but if he wants me, I’m safer than if he has some other piece to distract himself.

I pause as she holds out a tray. No food. Nothing but another stupid rose and a note. I take them and she turns, shutting the door loudly behind her.

“Good luck—you’ll never have him.” The words shock me the moment they leave my mouth. The vicious sting to them is something I don’t have an excuse for.

Instead, with need for Nikolai clawing at me alongside my hatred, I bite down on the note, ripping apart the rose at the same time, hurling the remnants across the room.

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