I'm soaked. Embarrassingly wet. And I hate myself for it, hate that his violence turned me on, hate that I'm touching myself while thinking about pale gray eyes and rough hands and the way he looked at me like he wanted to break me open and see what spilled out.
But I can't stop.
My fingers move in slow circles over my clit, and I bite my lip hard to stay quiet because he's right there, just through that wall, and what if he can hear? What if he knows what I'm doing?
The thought makes me wetter.
I imagine his hands instead of mine. Imagine him walking through that door and finding me like this—desperate and ashamed and aching. Would he be disgusted? Amused? Would he finish what I started or make me beg for it?
My fingers move faster, and I press my face into the pillow to muffle the sounds trying to escape.
This is wrong this is wrong this is so fucking wrong but…
But I can't stop imagining him. The way his fingers dug into my jaw. The rough drag of his thumb across my lip. The promise in his voice when he said he'd pull the darkness out of me.
What would that feel like? What would he do if I let him?
My other hand comes up to my breast, pinching my nipple through my shirt the way I imagine he would—rough, demanding, taking what he wants without asking.
I'm close. So close. Pressure building sharp and tight inside me.
And then I hear it.
Footsteps. On the other side of the wall. Moving closer. Coming toward the wall we share.
Then stopping.
Right there. Right on the other side of where I'm lying.
Oh God. He knows. He can hear me. He knows what I'm doing.
The thought pushes me over the edge.
I come hard, biting down on my fist to muffle his name as it tries to escape my lips. Pleasure crashes through me in waves—sharp and intense and followed immediately by crushing shame.
I lie there in the dark afterward, hand still between my thighs, breath coming in ragged gasps, listening.
The footsteps don't move.
He's still there. Standing on the other side of the wall. Listening to me fall apart.
Knowing exactly what I just did.
Minutes pass. Maybe longer. Time does something strange when you're drowning in shame and satisfaction.
Finally, the footsteps move away. Back toward what must be his bedroom. A door closes softly.
I curl into a ball, pulling my hand away and wiping it on the sheets like I can erase what just happened.
But I can't.
Because I just masturbated thinking about a man who threatened to break me. Came with his name almost on my lips. And he may have heard me do it.
Tomorrow I have to face him. Have to pretend this didn't happen. Have to take care of his daughter while knowing I'm betraying them both.
I'm caught between two predators—Patrick, who'll kill my family if I fail, and Lev, who'll kill me when he finds out what I'm doing.
And the worst part—the absolutely horrifying part—is that lying here in the dark, still feeling the aftershocks of orgasm, still hearing his footsteps in my head, I'm more afraid of Lev finding out than I am of Patrick's threats.
