Me: Hi, I’m so sorry I lost my phone and just got it back :( I hope you weren’t too worried. How’s Egypt? I can’t believe I didn’t get to say goodbye.
My leg shakes as I wait for a reply, but after ten minutes of staring down at my phone and realizing I’m not going to get one, at least not right away, I type out another message.
Before I can stop myself, I’ve sent a long string of texts explaining myself, trying to answer any questions that he might have before realizing that maybe I’ve said too much or the wrong thing, so I send another message trying to explain the previous one away. I finally send four more before forcing myself to put down the phone and walk away, knowing it’s doing nothing but ratcheting up the high- strung energy that’s coursing through my veins.
Me: Are you mad at me? I don’t like being so far away from you, it makes me nervous. Me: Any luck on the lamp?
Me: I don’t know what you’ve heard, but it isn’t what you think. Can you talk?
Me: I miss you.
I wait another few minutes before I groan, tossing my phone back on the table and deciding to break in my new shower. Anything to get my mind off the clusterfuck of messages I just sent.
The shower itself is incredible, and as the hot water cascades over my shoulders and down my body, I close my eyes and breathe deeply, trying to shake off the anxiety that clogs every pore. There’s always been an incessant need inside me to please other people, to make sure that I’m well liked and that everyone around me is taken care of and happy, and although over the years, I’ve learned different coping mechanisms for easing the burden of my runaway thoughts, there’s never been anything that’s completely cured me of having to put everyone else before me.
I know it’s a flaw, something that ends up putting me in more trouble than it’s worth, but for the life of me, I don’t know how to break it.
In fact, the only time in my life where Ihaven’tfelt the overwhelming urge to please somebody is when I’m around Julian.
My mouth sours at the fact.
Reaching out, I get some soap in my hand from the automatic dispenser on the wall and start to smooth my hands over my body, thinking about how different it feels when I’m around him andnotconcerned about whether he’s thinking badly of me.
I hate him, of course. But underneath that, it’s almost…freeing.
The thought makes my chest pinch tight.
Trying to refocus, I go back to the sham of a ceremony at the courthouse today, wondering how long it will take for a paper to run an article on the nuptials.
And then, before I can stop myself, as my hands brush over my breasts, I think about that kiss.
The one I haven’t allowed myself to think of since it happened, because if I did, I’d have to admit that I liked it. But now, here in the safety of solitude, I give in and let my mind wander, if only to get some reprieve from the thoughts I can’t control that are running through my head.
His mouth was soft.Softer than I expected, and I wonder if he’d be just as soft in other places.
My fingers ghost over my nipple, and I inhale sharply at the sensation. Slowly, I work my hand down the front of my body and slip my fingers over the top of my pussy, lightly brushing my clit.
A tingle surges through me when I apply pressure, and before I can stop myself, I’m imagining Julian on his knees, his tongue inside my pussy the same way it was devouring my mouth.
He’d be demanding, I just know it, but instead of it being a turnoff, it sends heat flaring through me, imagining him holding me in place and taking control of my pleasure the same way he controls the room whenever he walks into it.
I picture my fingers running through his hair, pulling on the strands until he groans from the pain, and my palm presses faster against my sensitive nerves, a slight moan escaping me into the air.
My muscles cramp and tighten, my body vibrating from the pleasure, and then I’m falling over the edge, my orgasm crashing through me and Julian’s name leaving my lips on a shaky exhale.
It takes a few minutes for me to recover from the visceral experience, and when I do, the reality of my situation creeps back in, and I feel sick for what I’ve done.
Even though nobody will ever know except for me.
Despite my temporary lack of conscience and control, I exit the shower feeling slightly better. Showers always tend to cleanse away the negative energy clinging to my soul, and I feel more relaxed after the orgasm, as long as I don’t focus on who I was imagining it was that was giving it to me.
I also don’t think too hard about the fact that my exact type of shampoo and conditioner is already in there, and the lotion I like to use is stocked with backups in the cabinet to the left of the sinks.
How long has he been planning this?
Maybe he’s the kind of man to always make things happen within a day. He’s certainly powerful enough to snap his fingers and have people ready to serve, and while I know it should put me on edge that he’s recreated almost every comfort from my home, I revel in the familiarity, even if it’s only here to provide me with a false sense of security, one that I definitely shouldn’t be feeling.
When I go to check my phone again, there’s a new message. My heart skips as I open it.
