Page 18 of Mating Season
ROSALIE
Last night I dreamed I escaped the penthouse. It was all very dramatic and exciting, though the details live just outside the edge of my awareness—fuzzy and unreal. I somehow know it was so vivid while it was happening, but now in the day, I can’t latch onto a single clear detail. I just know I got away.
It’s been nearly a week in Coopers house. I tried to stay locked in my room in a battle of wills over if he’d just let me starve in here or bring me food. I was betting on the fact that if he’s telling the truth about this mate bond thing, that he isn’t going to be able to stand for me to suffer or go hungry.
That worked for the first couple of days—mainly because he had to go out during the day. Even though he’s independently wealthy, he runs an architecture firm eight blocks from here, and while he can sometimes work from home, he had client meetings those days.
While he was gone, I was able to forage in the kitchen. I took boxes of snack foods back to my room and squirreled them away under my bed, along with bottled water. I know how ridiculous this all sounds. I Know! Okay? I get it.
If it were you, you’d have swooned into his arms the very instant you saw him naked and let him fuck and bite you withwild abandon. Good for you. I’m not that way. I need… I need time. I need to get to know someone, trust them. I need to know how this is going to affect the rest of my life. Where am I going to paint?
Look, I get that he’s hot. I get that he smells like something I want to climb. But no matter how wonderful he may be—and that’s still largely theoretical—I can’t spend my entire life just swooning over him and fucking. That’s going to get boring… eventually… maybe in a decade. And then what?
I want to paint. I want to follow my dreams and build my career. I know artist fame isn’t as glitzy as other types of fame, but I want it!
I don’t want to be abear!I don’t want to give birth to baby bears. The idea of something with FUR growing inside me is just… I know some babies are born with hair on their heads but just… no. Okay? Just no.
Is he going to keep me barefoot and pregnant in the penthouse? Am I going to become Internet famous from my videos of making cheese crackers from scratch while wearing a 1950’s housewife dress and pearls? Who can say?
How do I know he’ll even let me leave if I complete the mating bond with him? Maybe he’ll get even crazier. Maybe it’s just a way to trap me forever.
For all I know, resisting him and waiting for my first good opportunity of escape and then running until I can’t run anymore is my only shot at a real life. He isn’t the only hot successful guy that exists.
If he’d lock me inside his penthouse, is he even going to let me paint? And it’s not like I can paint inside this glorious Architectural Digest centerfold spread with all the ridiculous white and beige. So where am I going to do it? Maybe up on the roof while the weather’s still nice enough. But what aboutwhen winter comes? Am I expected to go a whole three months without painting?
He could probably spring for a studio rental, my logical brain supplies.
But probably not until I agree to the mating bond.
In the two days he was gone, I had a chance to really take a look at this place. The master bedroom is on the second floor, and it’s enormous. There is a tiled floor and a giant tub inside the bedroom next to a huge window showcasing that glorious view. He has three walk-in closets and a master bathroom. I have no idea what the hell you put in three walk-in closets, but I found out. One was for casual clothes. One was for formal and business wear. And the last one was for his hobbies, of which he seems to have many.
The roof does in fact have a pool, a hot tub, a sort of cabana bar, and a small vegetable and herb garden. I’m sure he has some kind of help… a cleaning lady, a gardener, something. There is no way he keeps this all up by himself. And eventually that person is going to come here. And then I’ll have my chance.
But… he’s kept the place clean without anybody’s help this week. I have never seen a man keep a space this clean. It’s unnatural. He is fastidious… like a serial killer, which also gives me pause. I’ve checked his freezer but there’s nothing suspicious—like human body parts.
Surely this neatness can’t be a bear thing. I wonder if he hibernates in the winter. If so, do I just need to wait him out a few more months and then make my escape?
He also has a big grill up on the rooftop and solar powered string lights around the edges, supported by steel poles. Does he throw parties up here? At some point other people are going to be in our space. Right?
He confiscated my cell phone and he hasn’t made the mistake of leaving any other phone in the penthouse, so I can’tcall the police. I push against the guilty feelings that rise when I think about getting him locked up. Besides, the full moon is coming soon, and I don’t want to think about what would happen to him if he shifted inside a jail cell. But why should I have to be the one to sacrifice myself? Why should I feel guilty? Just because he saved me in the woods?
Nikki must be worried sick. When I didn’t come home after the art show, she must have called someone. My family? Surely she filed a missing person’s report. Is someone out there looking for me right now?
By the third day with him finally home all day and refusing to bring food to my room, I eventually had to come out.
The inexplicable primal need for him has climbed to the point where he doesn’t even have to touch me to start my body humming. He just has to be in the general vicinity. I’ve masturbated probably twenty times a day since this thing escalated. Still, I resist him because this doesn’t feel like my free will.
This must be how an animal in heat feels. He just has to be in proximity to me now. Even a shut and locked door doesn’t lessen the need. I feel like I’m about to crawl out of my skin, and it takes all my will power not to beg him to take me. I have vivid full sensation dreams at night of his cock buried deep inside me as I buck against him and wail like some wild animal.
Each night, I wake from this dream with unbearable need between my legs, demanding my body surrender to him. All my senses are aligned in a mutiny against me, screaming for a satisfaction I won’t give.
The first time I woke from this dream, I discovered the night table drawer beside my bed was filled with sex toys and a note: “Until you decide to let me take care of you. - Cooper.”
I have no idea why he felt the need to sign that note. It’s not as though I had questions about who left it. I’m sure with hissuper senses he heard the buzzing toys, and the sounds I made when I came. I’m sure he smelled me. And yet… he remained on the other side of that door, full of self-discipline.
Do I want him more than he wants me? That seems unfair. After all, I was the one who wanted him to just let me go.
I almost crumbled last night and begged him to fuck me. The arousal has gotten so bad when he’s here, I can barely think. This penthouse isn’t big enough if he’s going to be… smelling like that. I don’t know how much longer I can hold out.
