How dare hemake me desire what he’s offering to another woman!
How dare heawaken this starving need to find out if there’s an ounce of possibility for me to feel what she feels!
How fucking dare he!
And after he tried to kill me, nonetheless.
The nerve of this man.
I thought we had a connection. Some form of mutual respect. I guess I’ll have to teach him a little lesson.
But until I form that plan, I’m glued to this wretched window and this infuriating man, watching as he clamps her nipples, a chain connecting them, and holds them with a painful tension as he violently spanks her clit. Tears stream down her cheeks, a mad smile pulls at her lips, and ecstasy paints every feature. This goes on for minutes on end, until her legs begin to shake, and she looks up at the strap connecting her to the ceiling like she can will it loose with one gaze.
When her breaths come in rapid bursts and her eyes turn glassy, Carter stops spanking her and loosens that strap, immediately grabbing the whip. The moment is instant. She impales herself on the slickened dildo, bouncing on it as Carter holds the delicate chain connecting the clamps on her nipples, and whips her between each dip.
Her orgasm comes five blows later, and I’m convinced it rattled the fucking window. I’m both mesmerized and frustrated. Which is why I must step away. The last thing I need is to witness the aftercare part of this scene.
Is it brief? Is it intimate? Is it sweet?
I turn on my heels before I get the answers.
I don’t know him, and he doesn’t know me. Yet, this wild voice inside my head rages with unfounded jealousy. I could claim that it’s because I’ll never experience what she just has. That I’ll never feel on my own skin that mad combination of pleasure and pain because my biology failed me.
Those are true as well, but they aren’t the main reason for this jealousy.
I’m truly screwed.
* * *
I don’t know how much time passed since I returned to the bar, but I already finished my first Necromancer cocktail and I’m halfway through the second when I notice Carter sitting at the bar. Three stools away from me.
I’m not sure he can see me here. There are quite a few people between us, both sitting and standing. Regardless, I doubt he’ll recognize me behind the white full-face Pierrot mask I’m wearing.
He took his time with the aftercare, I guess. Yet, he’s alone now.
Maybe I should have left, just as before, but I’m done avoiding him.
I sip more of my cocktail, reveling in the anise-flavored burn and wishing for more of it as I watch the man ordering his own drink. Is he a straight-up whiskey kind of guy? Vodka? Or beer?
No. Definitely not beer. Or maybe a Corona on an excessively warm summer day? Vodka seems too...simplistic. It must be whiskey, then.
Only, it’s not at all.
A delicate pink flower floats in the drink the bartender slides in front of him.
What the . . . ?
He pulls the tumbler close, dips one finger in, and swirls the flower through the drink exactly three times while I wipe actual drool from the corner of my mouth. He then slips that very finger beneath his mask, and deep in my core, a sizzle blooms. Oh, good god, what is this man doing to me?
The woman he was with is still nowhere in sight. Though, I can’t help but notice thevulturescircling. One chick has already walked by him three times, and he’s been sitting down for only two minutes. Another one is sitting on the next stool over from him, and she seems to be leaning further and further in. Maybe, just maybe, he’ll grace her with his attention.
And here I fucking am, judging these women when I’m doing the same thing—watching him.
I tell myself that my reasoning is completely different. The man wants to murder me, so of course I’ll be watching to make sure I’m ready when he comes for me.
Actually . . .
I pluck my phone from the pocket of my black circle dress—a tame, knee-high number with a low neckline that squeezes the crap out of my boobs but gives generous cleavage—and go straight to my text messages, tapping enthusiastically.
