Total pages in book: 187
Estimated words: 177397 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 887(@200wpm)___ 710(@250wpm)___ 591(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 177397 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 887(@200wpm)___ 710(@250wpm)___ 591(@300wpm)
A tube of lube may be the only way I will get the vault back open after Andrik sealed it shut so cruelly earlier today. I was right there, on the cusp of orgasm, and then he took away all my surf gear and forced me to find my own way back to shore.
Perhaps that’s what the extra thump of my pulse is?
Maybe I’m not horny.
Perhaps it is solely fury keeping my head clouded with confusion.
Nope.
The only thing I am is a liar. The quickest brush of my fingertip over my panties-covered pussy proves this. My clit is primed and ready to go, and despite my belief I’d be dryer than the Sahara, the faintest sliver of dampness coats my index finger.
I’m wet and, for once, unashamed by this.
I don’t need a man to climax, and it isn’t like Andrik owns my orgasms. He doesn’t even own me, so how can he claim possession of something that is a part of me?
He can’t.
Ignoring the screaming protests of my body that a solo trek will never feel as good as a fire-sparking coupling, I slant my head to peer out my partially cracked-open bedroom door.
I don’t know who I am looking for. I’ve lived alone for years. There’s just been a weird feeling in the air over the last couple of weeks. Almost like I am being watched.
To ensure that isn’t the case, I plug in the dirtbox Mikhail gifted me four weeks ago to ensure it doesn’t lose charge like it did when I turned up at Nikita’s work unannounced earlier today.
Once its flashes announce it is in operation, I slide my hand back between my legs so fast that vodka isn’t the sole cause of my dizziness. I hate that I’m already wet enough to darken the crotch of my panties with a shadow, but you wouldn’t know that for how fast I direct my fingers to my clit. My motivation to bring myself to climax seems more about proving to myself that I still have what it takes to be pleasured, that I don’t need a man to make me feel good—especially not a taken one.
After tugging off my panties, I slide two fingers between the folds of my pussy, slicking them with the wetness building more rapidly than any previous solo journey, before firming my clit more with my thumb.
A lazy smile stretches across my face when they don’t encounter an ounce of resistance when I thrust two fingers inside myself—forever impatient.
They slide in with ease and feel incredibly arousing.
The buzz they spark through me has me hopeful this won’t take long. My first self-pleasing expedition in over a month has nothing to do with pleasure and everything to do with needing sleep.
I’ll never be able to help Nikita purchase the breathing machine Grampies needs to live pain-free if I turn up to an interview looking like a zombie.
Yeah, right.
Even when it is of my own doing, I like to feel desired. Validated.
I want to be wanted.
It is an annoying crutch I’ve struggled to give up since childhood.
I doubt it will ever fully go away. I just wish I could mimic how desired I felt when it was Andrik’s hand on me instead of my own.
He knew precisely where to touch and for exactly how long. It was like he could read my body and understand its every desire.
Although it is fleeting, he truly makes me feel wanted when his hands are on me.
Cherished, even.
An unwanted shudder shakes my thigh when a stern tweak of my clit has me recalling something he said earlier.
Who owns this cunt, darling?
“Not you,” I murmur, more angry at myself than him that he is leading what is meant to be a solo expedition.
He shouldn’t be hard to hate. The guilt he makes me feel after every exchange should fester in my heart until it boils over. But no matter how hard I’ve tried to forget him the past month, he continually pops up. Whether in my dreams or while speaking to Mikhail before he railroaded me without warning again today, he always takes center stage.
I can’t let him have this too.
This is the one thing I have all to myself. I don’t have to share it with anyone.
I slide my fingers in and out of myself while flicking my clit with my opposite hand. Pleasure jolts through me over and over, but before it can crest and then crash through me, the anticipation I’m attempting to ignite dulls to a simmer, and the urge floats away.
As I drift my eyes to the drawer that’s impossible to open without a creak loud enough to wake my neighbors, I push my fingers in and out of my pussy at a frantic pace.
Is that the issue? Do I want to be fucked instead of made slow, lazy love to like I was after Andrik cooked and fed me?