I imagine it's Richard's hand. Richard touching me, those long fingers that probably know exactly what to do, exactly how to make a woman fall apart. Richard's mouth on my skin, his body covering mine, his voice low and rough in my ear saying—
*"You're safe here, Belle."*
*"I could never turn you away."*
*"There's nowhere else I'd rather be."*
I slip two fingers inside myself, easy because of how wet I am, and moan into the quiet room. I'm so empty, have been emptyfor so long. Nathan stopped touching me months ago, said he couldn't get hard for a fat girl who just laid there like a corpse.
But Richard… God, Richard wouldn't say that. Richard looks at my curves like he wants to worship them, like he sees beauty instead of something to criticize. I've caught him looking when he thought I wasn't paying attention, his dark eyes traveling down my body.
I fuck myself with my fingers, faster now, thumb working my clit while my other hand squeezes my breast roughly. It feels good, so good, but it's not enough. My fingers aren't long enough, thick enough. I need more, need to be filled properly, need—
I need Richard Kane inside me.
The thought rushes through my mind, and I moan louder. I picture him in this room, in this bed, that perfect control finally snapping. Richard covering my body with his, pinning me down with his weight, his cock… It probably matches the rest of him, impressive and overwhelming, pushing inside me.
Would he be gentle? Patient? Or would that composure shatter and reveal something rougher underneath?
I want both. Want him to take his time exploring my body, learning what makes me gasp and moan. But I also want him wild, desperate, fucking me hard enough to make me forget Nathan ever touched me.
My fingers move faster, my hips rocking against my hand as the pleasure builds. I imagine Richard's voice in my ear, telling me I'm beautiful, that I'm perfect, that he's wanted this for so long. Imagine him groaning my name when he comes, filling me up, marking me as his instead of Nathan's.
The orgasm hits suddenly, crashing over me in waves that make my whole body arch off the bed. I bite down on my free hand tomuffle the sounds, to keep from screaming Richard's name loud enough for the whole house to hear.
It goes on forever, pleasure rolling through me until I'm shaking, gasping, completely wrecked. When it finally subsides, I collapse back against the pillows, my fingers still inside myself, my heart racing.
Holy shit.
That was... I haven't come like that in years. Maybe ever. Nathan never made me feel like that, even in the beginning when things were good, before the abuse started, he was mediocre at best.
But just the thought of Richard, the fantasy of him, made me come harder than I ever have. I slowly pull my fingers free and wipe them on the sheets. They're already soaked anyway, might as well own it. My body feels heavy, satisfied, the constant ache finally eased for the moment.
But the guilt hits immediately. I just masturbated thinking about Richard. Nathan's father. The man who's giving me sanctuary, who stayed up half the night making sure I was okay, who deserves so much better than being the subject of my desperate fantasies.
Except... is it just me? The way he looked at me sometimes, the distance he maintained, the way his voice got rough when he said certain things. Could he possibly—
No. I'm being delusional. Richard Kane could have any woman he wants: sophisticated, successful, age-appropriate women who haven't just escaped abusive relationships and shown up on his doorstep like desperate strays.
He's being kind. Protective. Nothing more.
I need to remember that.
I curl onto my side and pull the blanket up to my chin, my body finally relaxed enough for sleep. Tomorrow I'll figure out next steps like lawyers, money, finding somewhere permanent to live. Tomorrow, I'll be practical and sensible and stop having inappropriate thoughts about my benefactor.
Tonight, I'll let myself have this. The memory of Richard's voice, the fantasy of his touch, the orgasm that's left me boneless and satisfied for the first time in forever.
Tomorrow I'll be better.
I fall asleep within minutes, and for the first time in eighteen months, I don't have nightmares.
Next Day
I wake to sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows and the disorienting sensation of not knowing where I am. Then it all comes rushing back—the wedding, the escape, Richard's fortress, our middle-of-the-night conversation.
The orgasm I gave myself while thinking about him.
My face heats immediately, and I bury it in the pillow with a groan. What the hell was I thinking? Actually, I know exactly what I was thinking, which is the problem.
