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Three fucking days.
Three days since Farrow confronted me in the sauna, forcing me to question my own sanity.
Three days since I felt her cum drip on my fingers and kneaded her ass—herflesh—without coiling or vomiting.
Three days since the tight walls of her wet pussy caged the tip of my cock inside them, squeezing it for dear life.
What would fucking her bareback feel like?
That very question consumed my days and devoured my nights.
I was a man obsessed, and I couldn’t focus on anything other than relishing the feel of her.
Suddenly, I couldn’t remember why or when I found human skin appalling. I wanted hers on mine twenty-four seven.
Which brought me to my next problem.
Farrow showed no signs of warming up the cold shoulder she’d given me since that day. I craved any sign of life from her. Any proof that she wanted my touch as much as I wanted hers.
And so, I found myself taking lengthy trips in my orchid garden, meditating four times a day instead of three, and roaming the hallways of my mansion like a haunted ghost, hunting for signs of her.
She was everywhere, and yet, nowhere at all.
In the random appetizer on my lunch tray that hadn’t changed for seventeen years.
In the extra sheet on my bed beneath the comforter when the temperatures dropped with the season change.
And in my office surveillance feeds, which I checked to make sure that she’d actually come to make her Go move.
Astonishingly, she completed her job to my satisfaction.
I’d gone through every maid in the DMV to the point where I dumped ludicrous investments into robotic cleaning equipment in hopes I never had to deal with human incompetence again.
But under Farrow’s care, the manor never looked better.
The problem? She moved things around—yet again, forcing change on me.
She put flowers in vases. Shifted furniture from one place to another. Drew back all the curtains to let natural light flood in.
I should’ve found it silly that she took pride in making my house a home. That she grinned to herself when she rearranged a fruit bowl on one of my kitchen islands or tilted a painting to the perfect angle.
She seemed completely content avoiding me, while I was on the verge of clawing my own skin off. Why weren’t we talking? Teasing each other?Touchingeach other?
I was like a baby who had just figured out how to walk.
I wanted to do it all the time. Touch her hair. Her cheeks. Her tits. Her pussy.
On the fourth day of our radio silence, I finally cornered her.
She was in my garden, of all places, eviscerating a white rose bush to fill my six-figure art vases.
I figured she wouldn’t take it well if I told herthose roses shouldn’t be placed in urns that were essentially historical treasures, some over 600 years old. The exposure to moisture alone would eviscerate their value.
The simple black-and-white maid dress clung to her curves, highlighting every arch and bend. Her hair, like molten gold, framed her shoulders and face.
She wore earbuds in her ears, bobbing her head back and forth as she took scissors to my well-tended flowers. She didn’t hear me coming, even when I stood about a foot away from her.
Her scent drifted to my nose. She smelled of summer and sin; of the sun kissing a flower in bloom.
