Ishouldn’t have been this wet over a stranger.
The second the bedroom door clicked shut behind me, I kicked away my slippers and collapsed backward onto the silk-draped bed like a spoiled, overstimulated brat—because that’s exactly what I was. Spoiled. Restless. And tonight, so unbearably turned on I could barely breathe.
My hand hovered at the waistband of my pajama shorts before I even had the lights off. Thin, slippery silk clung to me like a whisper, and I arched my hips into the air, imagining him—his hands gripping my thighs, his tongue flicking wicked and slow between my legs, the heat of his breath against my skin.
I let out a low, shivery breath as my fingers teased through the fabric. God, I was soaked. My body was already betraying me, practically begging for more. I tugged the shorts to the side, not bothering to take them off.
I slipped two fingers between my thighs, tracing slow, lazy circles over my clit before letting them slide lower. My breath hitched as I pushed inside myself, then out again, slick and slow. My other hand slipped under my top, toying with one of my nipples until it peaked against my palm. I moaned—loud, unashamed—then rubbed harder, faster, grinding against my hand while picturing his mouth there instead, sucking, biting, teasing me to the edge.
I curled my fingers, gasping. Imagined him pinning me down. Holding me open. Making me take every bit of it—his mouth, his fingers, his cock—until I forgot my own name.
I’d never had anyone between my legs before. Not like that. But God—he—he was the first man I actuallywanteddown there. Desperately. Shamelessly. I wanted to ride his face until I broke apart, sobbing his name. I wanted to taste his cock, feel it splitting me open while I cried from the stretch and the sweetness of it.
When I came, Iscreamed.
Not into the pillow. Not into my palm. I screamed, head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut, every muscle in my body shaking as I pulsed around my own hand. I didn’t have to be quiet—not here. Not in this house.
No one would hear me. Not that I gave a damn if they did.
I had the entire east wing to myself. My own suite, my own marble bathroom, my own private balcony. This house was a fortress and it didn’t give a damn that I was spread wide open, coming to the thought of a stranger.
Afterward, I just lay there, dazed, legs trembling, shorts askew, chest heaving with aftershocks.
“Fuck,” I whispered to the ceiling, still half drunk on the high. “Whatisthis?”
Because it wasn’t just the orgasm.
It was him. Just the thought of him. The way his eyes locked onto mine like he could peel me open without trying. That lazy, dangerous grin that felt like a dare. The way he barely moved, just watched—patient, lethal, waiting.
For the first time in forever, I wasn’t bored out of my mind.
The privilege, the rules, the performance of perfection I was born into—it was all soexhausting. But this?He? He was something else.
A spark. A game. A new obsession.
And I had every intention of driving him mad.
Poor thing didn’t stand a chance.
I kept rewinding it in my head—our first encounter playing on an endless loop, like my brain refused to let go of a single frame.
Tonight, I was heading from one wing of the house to another—on my way to my mother’s suite. I wanted to kiss her goodnight, the way I always did, a small ritual she barely noticed anymore but I refused to skip. I think part of me still hoped she’d notice. That maybe one night, she’d kiss me back and mean it. But mostly, I just wanted to see her breathing. And yes—I also wanted one of her pills.
She had drawers full of them. Benzos, sleeping meds, antidepressants. She’d been knocking herself out for years, floating through the days like some perfumed ghost.
Lately, I understood the appeal.
My life was so quiet, so sterile, so mind-numbingly empty that sometimes I couldn’t stand the silence in my own head. I was expected to be perfect—top of my class, fluent in three languages, graceful at the piano, and obedient to the last polished detail. No boyfriends. No nights out. Just tutors, daily workouts and curated wardrobes, preparing me to be someone’strophy. The pressure to smile, to be lovely, to sit up straight and sparkle on command—it scraped something raw inside me. So every now and then, I’d steal one of her pills and let myself drift into that same numb fog. A drugged hush. Just for a night.
And I wouldn’t even feel guilty.
Not with a father like mine.
Businessman, they called him—like it was some kind of inside joke.
Ha.Businessmen don’t leave blood on their boots. Businessmen don’t need guards who follow their families around like trained dogs. Businessmen don’t have enemies who try to kill their teenage daughters just to make a point. And businessmen don’t break their wives so badly they forget how to live. I’d seen enough blood to know: my father was no businessman. He was a predator in a suit.
He never told me what exactly he did. He didn’t need to. I grew up watching armed men drift in and out of our house like shadows—guns tucked under coats, blood on their suits. I heard enough behind closed doors to understand.
