She nods and hugs me back before finishing her packing. I leave her be, knowing from years of living with her as my roommate in boarding schools that she needs to be alone to process and think through things. Heading to the kitchen, I pour myself another glass of Rosé, our favorite wine, and sit on the couch, pretzel bag in hand.
Flipping on her Smart TV, I try to get into it, but I just can’t. I take a deeper sip of wine and push thoughts of Stone right where they belong, deep in my subconscious. If I see him again, I’m going to ignore him. I don’t need to get caught up in his moodybullshit anyway. I’ve had enough of unavailable men to last me a lifetime.
Restless, I flip through my phone messages, laughing at the text exchange between Jacks, Dru, Meela, Laraline, and Ellie. Tomorrow is girls’ night, and I’m excited to see everyone. We haven’t had the chance to meet up since we went to the club. It will probably be Dru’s last before her and Silas’s child is born. During our last text exchange, she mentioned swollen feet and back pain, so she is staying close to home rather than venturing out. We are going to the penthouse to see her.
And tomorrow at girls’ night, I plan on enjoying a few drinks, eating some of Sophia’s fantastic food, and then taking an Uber to my new place. A place that doesn’t belong to my father. A place that wasn’t bought by my brother. A place that isn’t borrowed from Kingsley. A place that I don’t share with a shitty boyfriend. It’s mine. Paid for with money from my mother’s side of the family. Gifted to me.
I know I was born an heiress, but right now, that dirty, dusty gallery is like a castle.
Yes, it’s probably filled with health code violations. Yes, I’m going to be sleeping on a sleeping bag, but I don’t care. Nothing tastes better than the freedom I’ve been enjoying.
I can’t sleep.
But what else is new? It’s been like this for weeks. Months actually. I could wake up Kingsley, but she has a 5 a.m. flight and needs her sleep. I could text the girls, but it’s past midnight, and everyone is busy living their lives.
Sitting up, I crawl out of bed and bend down, looking under the bed to find the black box. I haven’t used the charcoal set yet,and tonight feels like the perfect time.Most of the images are done in pencil or pen, but tonight I want something different.
Sketches of his face fill the pages. Horny, I pick up my sketchbook and flip through the latest drawings. Each image gets sharper, clearer. His eyes, his face. Drawing after drawing shows his fingers, those deliciously pierced lips. His forearms. His scar. All of it has been scratched into the vellum, smudged with my fingers.
I open the box, feeling another rush of pleasure at the gift. I still have no idea who sent it. My fingers trail over one of the longer pieces of charcoal. They don’t feel like other charcoal I’ve used. They are thinner, fragile even, but they glide over the surface of the paper beautifully. I start to sketch him again. This time, I create an image of him sitting on his bike. Memories of the last time I saw him bombard me. Back and forth the charcoal stick goes, illustrating him, until the whole image appears. His thick thighs, his massive chest. His corded arms. I draw until my fingers cramp and my pussy is throbbing. I stare at his face. Those eyes, dark pools filled with even darker promises.
I strip off my shirt, leaving me naked, and go to my closet and take out his jacket. It hangs off my body, too big for my slender frame. I catch my reflection in the mirror behind the closet door. I wish I could wear it for him. But even if he’ll never see me like this, I can fantasize.
Jace’s warnings are far away. The need to be close to Stone takes precedence. Running my hands over my chest, I leave charcoal residue from my fingers behind. I pinch my nipples beneath his jacket, making them darker, almost black. I stare in the mirror, liking how they look, liking the contrast with my skin. Pleasure zings through my body, pooling low in my belly.I keep going until black stripes cover my skin, like tiger stripes. When I reach my pussy, I rub my fingers across the mound, smearing the soot, dirtying my pussy. But I want more. I headback to the bed and pick up a charcoal stick and draw lines over my inner thighs, marking myself, using my body as a canvas, wishing he was the one doing it. I want him doing it so fucking bad. I want him drawing on me, fucking me. I pinch my clit adding more charcoal. My knees tremble, threatening to buckle. My imagination conjures a vision of him at my feet, kneeling, looking up at me. My fingers become his.
The bold, brave Camryn who lives in my head demands,“Clean me. Use your tongue.”
As he does what I say. Stone opens my legs and cleans the sediment from my pink inner lips, groaning, holding me right on the tip of his tongue.
“Look at me,”I say in my head. Imaginary Stone pulls back, his lips and chin are shiny, covered in my dripping arousal and smudges of charcoal.
Turning, I catch sight of the top of the dresser. The silver flash seems to glow in the dim room.
His ring.
Excitement courses through my body when I walk to the dresser my body shivering, ready to come. The lining of his jacket rubs against my nipples building another layer of desire.
I know exactly what I’m going to do with his ring. Usually, I wear it on the silver chain around my neck, but I’ve been too afraid of risking another argument with Jace if he notices a man’s ring hanging around my neck. Since Jace jumped down my throat about Stone’s jacket, I’ve made sure not to mention him. I was surprised that Jace didn’t say anything about the night that Stone took me home on his bike. Then again, my brother was too busy sucking on Sophia’s face to notice. Then there’s King. There’s no doubt she’d want to know what I was doing with a man’s ring. Not to mention the other women in my circle. I’m sure they would all be happy if they saw me wearing Stone’s ring. They might think it was some high school-levelshit. Wearing it might mean that something hot and heavy is happening between us. But sadly, that is not the case, and I don’t want to explain what I actually do with it.
I slip the ring on my middle finger and head back to the guest bed. My sketchbook is in the middle of the blanket, and an idea hits me.
I move the sketch book to the end of the bed, resting it against the footboard, and make sure the drawing I just did is facing me. I lean back on my elbow, in Kingsley’s guest bed, and open my legs, staring at the portrait I made of him. His drawn eyes are staring between my legs. That sexy smirk on his face feels so real. Running my fingers through my pussy, I moan, pretending like he’s really here, really watching me, encouraging me to fuck myself while he witnesses me masturbating. I want to put on an exhibition for him. Show him how much I can handle. The hard metal skull and bones grind on the crest of my clit. The large ring slides up and down, my liquid making it too slippery to stay put. Needing a taste, I put my finger in my mouth, imagining it’s his fingers covered in my tangy arousal.
Pleasure races along my spine, making me shake. Reaching over, I open my drawer with my free hand and grab my glass dildo from the drawer near my bed. The end is round and bulbous, which always hits my G-spot perfectly.
I insert the dildo, watching my drawing of him, picturing him holding it, inching it inside me. In my illusion, his tongue finds my clit. His fingers flick my nipples.
I arch my back, squeeze my eyes shut, and fuck myself deeply. The dildo morphs into his cock. It slides in and out of me. I come hard, pushing my three wet fingers into my mouth, moaning around them while I dig my heels into the mattress, lifting my ass in the air. I tilt the dildo up, hitting my G-spot again and again, chasing the orgasm with his name all over it. Flopping on the bed, I curl my legs around the dildo, trappingit, rocking on the hard glass. My breath comes in spurts, and my entire chest is soaked with sweat. I open my eyes and curse at the drawing of him. “Fuck.”
Chapter 23
April
“Breathe, Silas. What can you hear? What can you see?”
I stare into the face of Silas Kenzington. His normally deeply tanned skin is pale, his eyes glazed. Harsh, irregular breaths exit his chest. Panic Attack.
I recognize all the symptoms, and for a second, I’m transported back to my past. The times when Ivory would start to pace and eventually collapse on the ground, breathing heavily, gripping her knees, rocking back and forth, trapped in the vise of her memories. The night of my stepfather’s sexual assault. The night he almost killed her, changing the trajectory of her life forever.
