Page 60 of Suite 7

No touching. No orgasms. You wait.

I groan into my pillow.

My body has no patience for anything ordinary this morning. Every brush of the sheets feels like too much. The morning sun through the windows feels too warm. Even the silk of my pajamas is too much

This is Day One.

Could be three days. Could be a week.

I’m going to die.

My phone buzzes.

Kane: Good morning. Color check.

My thighs clench involuntarily at seeing his name on the screen.

Me: Green. Frustrated. But green.

Kane: Good. That frustration? That’s you learning. How did you sleep?

Me: Fine.

Kane: Liar. You barely slept because you kept thinking about last night. About my hands on you. How close you came to getting what you wanted.

A pull low in my stomach. He’s doing this on purpose.

Me: That’s not fair.

Kane: I never said this would be fair. I said it would teach you something. Big difference. Now go to work. And remember, no touching.

Me: As if I could forget.

Kane: Good. That’s the point. Check in tonight.

He doesn’t wait for a response. Just leaves me staring at my phone, frustrated and already counting the hours until he texts again.

Work on Tuesday is, if not fine, then manageable.

That’s the thing about having a brain that runs on systems. You can apply a system to almost anything, including want. I identify the problem: I’m frustrated and overstimulated and thinking about a man who has temporary custody of my orgasms. I acknowledge the problem: noted, filed, not relevant to the client brief currently open on my screen. I give it a box and I put it in the box and I close the lid.

I do this approximately forty times before noon.

It works, more or less. I review the Nakamura contract. I draft talking points for Thursday’s press call. I eat lunch, and when my mind drifts to his hands on my wrists, I bring it back. This is not a difficult skill. I have been filing inconvenient feelings since I was twenty-two and Damon first told me I was too much and I decided to believe him.

I think about not touching myself on my way home. The absurdity of it, the way Kane Sinclair has somehow turned my own self-control into an act of submission, made my competence into a gift I’m giving him. It’s almost funny. I file that too.

By Tuesday evening the box is full.

I eat standing at the kitchen counter, leftover pasta I barely taste, because taste seems to require more processing power than I currently have available. Afterward, I collapse on the couch and flip channels without seeing them.

My mind keeps sliding back to his room. His hands on my hips. The look on his face when I’d kissed him, the exact moment his control had cracked and then reassembled.

The box opens slightly.

The weight of my own body. The press of my thighs together when I shift position. The pulse that hasn’t stopped since last night.

I close the lid. Hard.