Page 19 of Lust

It’s the music! The realization hits me like a brick. This is what Noémi meant by fun. She’s controlling us all by music.

“Get the fuck out of my face,” I whimper. Damn. This cannot be happening.

He wavers a second, then thankfully steps back and sits back on the edge of the bathtub. It’s not enough. The urge to go over to him and touch him is no longer within my control. I’m having to fight my bodily urges. As I sit gripping onto the edge of the vanity and staring at Dade because I can’t seem to find anywhere else to put my eyes, I notice how gorgeous he is and how much I want to run my finger over his bottom lip. Not just my finger. I want to bite it, kiss it, lick it. Heat floods through me and the music becomes louder and faster, as though it’s urging me on. I try to close my eyes to stop whatever it is that’s turning me on, but I can’t help but peep at him through my eyelashes. He’s staring at the floor, and I’m literally shaking with arousal. Wet heat is pouring out of me. My panties are soaked, as is my brow. I need to get into the shower and turn it on to the coldest setting. I’ve never felt more wretched in my entire life, and it’s mortifying.

“You need to get out of here,” I demand, already pulling my sweater off.

He doesn’t move. If he doesn’t leave soon, I’m going to jump on him and basically force him to touch me. Horror doesn’t even come close to what I’m feeling right now.

“Get out!” I scream. Sweat is pouring down my body and my hair is soaked.

Finally, he turns to look at me. When he does, his eyes widen. “What’s happening,Valentine?”

Finally, his face registers some emotion other than contempt, but I’m way too far gone to care. I want him. With every fiber of my being, I want to rip his clothes off and have him fuck me all over this bathroom, fulfilling the promise that his fingers and tongue made the last time we were in here together. At this point, I don’t think I even care if he does rip my head off, at least that would bring me some modicum of relief.

But I can’t. I can’t have him do any of that because he hates me. I probably hate him and I still don’t know if he’s going to draw out a sword from thin air and lop my head off. “Please go outside,” I huff out through clenched teeth. I’m so hot I feel like my skin is on fire and though my entire body is an inferno, most of the heat is concentrated between my legs.

“You need help. Shit, Valentine, You’re a mess.”

“Thanks for that astute observation,” I manage to pant, my voice trembling with a mixture of fear and frustration. Why won’t he just leave me alone?

“We need to stop this. I’ll call for them to stop it.” He takes a step toward me. I hold my hand out, palm facing him. “Stop.” I try to calm myself down, which is a herculean effort, seeing as my body is becoming painful. I know what I need. I just can’t get it from him. Literally, anyone but him would do. I would even swap with Juliette and have Orlin attempt to give me an orgasm to get this feeling to subside.

I inhale sharply and try to compose myself. “I need you to leave me alone. Don’t call anyone. Don’t do anything. Just go.”

I can’t take it anymore. I hop in the bath and turn the shower head on as cold as it will go. My clothes soak through as the water washes some of the sweat from my body. It’s not enough. I need to find a release and I need to do it by myself.

Dade turns and puts his hand to the door knob. I know he’ll find our shared bedroom through that door.

I could follow him and we could have sex on the bed.

The thought has never been so exciting and yet so horrific. Why isn’t he affected by the music? He looks normal. Perturbed maybe. Shocked. Maybe even upset, but he’s not the one having to cross his legs to ease the pain. I will him to go through the door and leave me alone. Tears course down my cheeks as the desperate need for release strengthens with each passing second. When he turns around, my heart pounds. Why won’t he just go? I need to feel something on my clit, if only my own fingers. I can get rid of this situation by myself if only he’d just leave. I’ve never really been one for masturbating. Truly, the best orgasm I’ve ever had was given to me by Dade’s tongue.

Oh god, how I wish I could feel his tongue of me again, he could take my pain away in seconds. Although I feel like I’m about to literally burst, even I could finish myself off in seconds at this rate.

He strides over to me. Not getting in the shower, but leaning over enough that his hair is getting wet. He looks so fucking sexy with his wet hair clinging to his face. I think fucking Dade in the shower has now become my number one fantasy and my number one nightmare all rolled into one.

Focus!

“Tell me what’s wrong, Valentine,” he demands. His voice is hard like marble and the way he’s looking at me, he might as well be hewn from it.

“I need…” I can’t bring myself to say the words. I think I might actually die from this pain, but rather that than the alternative.

“What? What do you need?” He takes his hands and places them on each side of my head and gives me a dark, hard stare.

He’s absolutely glorious and as sexy as all hell, and I can’t take it anymore. It’s practically a compulsion at this point.

I can’t seem to get the words out so I grab one of his hands and pull it downward, slipping it under the waistband of my pants. His eyes widen and I feel the heat of shame mingling with the heat of whatever this nightmare is.

“I need…” I choke out. His eyes widen. “I need you to touch me…or I need to touch myself. I need relief from this… I need…”

“You want me to make you come? Here? Now?” Confusion fills his features, softening the edges that a moment ago were all hard angles and anger.

“I need you to,” I sob, practically falling on him. He shifts forward slightly, taking my weight by putting his spare arm under mine, holding me up.

“You’ve got a funny way of seducing people?” he says flatly. There’s nothing actually sexy about this, I realize. From my point of view, which is currently one of a sex crazed idiot, I’m horny as hell and there’s never been a more sexy moment in my life, but he can’t have the same thought. I literally just asked him if he was a murderer. It’s hardly a Hallmark moment.

“Please!” I cry out, trying to grind myself on his fingers.

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