Standing makes it worse. The seam of my sleep shorts rubs against me as I move, and I have to bite my lip to keep from moaning. This is insane. I'm a grown woman, not some character in the romance novels stacked on my coffee table. I don't take orders from anyone, especially not from men who look at me like I'm something they want to consume.
Except I am. And Sebastian did. And here I am, following his command like it's been hardwired into my DNA.
I stomp toward the bathroom, my movements stiff with frustrated desire. Splashing cold water on my face, I hope it might douse some of the fire running through my veins. It doesn't.
"Damn him," I mutter as I shuffle into my kitchen, needing coffee before I can process what the hell happened last night or why I'm obeying a command from a man who's been treating me like dirt all week.
While the coffee brews, I check my phone for the seventeenth time since getting out of bed five minutes ago. No messages. No calls. No Sebastian.
What were you expecting?I ask myself, tossing the phone onto the counter.An apology for leaving you wet and wanting would be a good start.
The coffee maker beeps as I answer myself, and I grab my favorite mug. The first sip burns my tongue, but I barely notice. I'm already burning everywhere else.
Caffeine in hand, I wander into my living room, where my collection of plants seems to be silently judging me. Fitzwilliam the fern is drooping, clearly dehydrated. The jade plant on the coffee table has shed leaves onto my stack of books. The pothos hanging in the corner is stretching desperately toward the window, seeking light I've been too distracted to provide by opening the blinds.
"You too, huh?" I mutter to the plants. "Everyone's needs are being neglected around here."
I set down my coffee and grab the mister bottle from the windowsill, aggressively spraying Fitzwilliam until water drips from his fronds onto the hardwood floor. I don't bother wiping it up.
The spray bottle is almost empty by the time I reach the jade plant, so I head to the kitchen to refill it. My phone sits exactly where I left it, screen dark and silent. I glare at it before snatching it up, checking for notifications I know aren't there.
"This is pathetic," I inform the empty apartment.
But my body doesn't care about pathetic. My body only cares about the memory of Sebastian's hands, his mouth, his commanding voice. My body only cares about the emptiness between my legs that's becoming harder to ignore with each passing minute.
I slam the spray bottle down. My fingers twitch toward my phone again before I force them away. I need distraction. I need something, anything, to take my mind off the ache that's settled deep in my core.
Laundry. I'll do laundry. Nothing sexy about sorting underwear and folding socks.
Marching back to my bedroom, I’m determined to focus on mundane tasks rather than the phantom sensation of Sebastian's fingers tracing my inner thigh. But as I pass my bed, the tangled sheets remind me of how I tossed and turned all night, caught between dreams of what might have happened if he hadn't stopped in that alley and the reality of waking up alone and unfulfilled.
My phone buzzes, and my heart leaps into my throat as I rush to see who it is.
Laney:You alive? Did you escape with a hot stranger?
I type out a quick response, fingers clumsy with disappointment.
Me:Long story. Call you later.
I toss the phone onto my bed, not wanting to explain that the hot stranger was Sebastian Walker, that he kissed me senseless against a wall and then left me hanging, that I'm now obeying his command not to touch myself like some sex-crazed puppet whose strings he's pulling from afar.
Damn, I need a shower. A cold one. And if my hand happens to wander while I'm soaping up? Well, Sebastian will never know.
But even as I head toward the bathroom, stripping off my tank top as I go, I know I won't do it. Not because I'm afraid of his consequences, whatever those might be. But because some part of me—some traitorous, masochistic part—wants to see where this goes. Wants to feel the full force of this desire, this need, this hunger that's growing with each hour that passes.
Maybe I’m possessed? Maybe Sebastian Walker has cast some spell on me, turning me into the kind of woman who follows commands and aches for men who look at her like she's something to be devoured.
Or maybe this is who I've always been and Sebastian just saw it first.
Either way, as I step under the spray of the shower, careful to keep the water lukewarm so it doesn't feed the fire already burning inside me, I know one thing for certain. I'm in serious fucking trouble.
By noon, I've reorganized my entire bookshelf by color, scrubbed the bathroom until even the grout is gleaming, and watered my plants to the point where I'm worried about root rot. My skin feels too tight, like I've outgrown my own body overnight. The throbbing between my legs hasn't subsided, if anything, it's gotten worse.
"This is stupid," I mutter, viciously spraying glass cleaner on my already spotless coffee table. He's probably at the hospital, terrorizing interns and looking at patient files like last night never happened.
The thought makes me scrub harder, the microfiber cloth squeaking against the glass. My movements are erratic, fueled by a frustration that cleaning can't even begin to touch. I've never been this wound up in my life. Not during finals week of med school. Not during my thirty-six-hour shifts in the ER. Not even that time Laney set me up with the yoga instructor who could hold his breath for four minutes.
I've just started reorganizing my medical journals by publication date when I realize my plants are literally drowning. Water pools beneath Fitzwilliam's pot, and the soil in my jade plant is so saturated it's turned to mud. I grab a handful of paper towels and start mopping up the mess, muttering apologies to the greenery.
