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This is the first of her flowers absent of hope. It seems I may have cast a shadow across her macabre garden. A pit forms in my stomach at that thought.

I need the woman to leave. Not lose luster for her art.

I knew she’d be waiting somewhere in the trees. What I hadn’t expected was for her to take up residency only a few trunks away. I was close enough to see her glossy hair shine under the moonlight.

When I looked down, I caught a glimpse of her pouty lips making the shape of an ‘O’ as she read my messages. Just like when I’d pulled her to me in the trees, my cock had stiffened instantly, my attention locking onto her mouth—soft, full, impossible to ignore.

Apparently, my cock has a mind of its own when it comes to Patience. I have the fucking blue balls to prove it. The things I could do to that pouty mouth of hers.

Pressure from my balls sends a sting through my quickly hardening cock. Hissing through my teeth, I slow my pace. This woman is maddening. My only solace is that her efforts were for nothing. I was getting surprisingly nervous when she hadn’t left at the first sign of light. When she stood to leave, I was excited at first. Though the moment she crossed over the hill, I almost missed her presence. It only took a few moments to turn his head upside down, place it in his lap, then use it as a ghoulish and sticky vase for my little bouquet.

She must be furious right now. Elation lifts the heels of my feet as I bask in my early morning success. Reaching the steps to my front walkway, I make my way to the door.

Checking my phone, I can’t help but chuckle. I expected at least a very well-worded “fuck you.” No description. Just crass and direct. Looking at the screen, I shake my head, mildly deflated, to find she’s left me on read with no response.

It’s a shame her creativity couldn’t be focused on the use of the English language. I imagine she would be quite the poet.

I head to the shower. Shrugging off my sweaty shirt and track pants, I step under the water before it warms. A nice shock to the nervous system. Pictures of Patience flood my mind. Imagining her parted glossy lips has me wrapping my hand around my already hard cock. I begin to stroke it to the images of her mouth open. How she would look on her knees, those plump lips wrapped around my cock. Her peridot green eyes looking at me through long lashes. The full array of visions I had last night runs through my mind as my release builds. Using my free hand, I tug my aching balls, pushing myself over the edge. Cum coats the wall of the shower. I open my eyes to watch the pent-up frustration from last night wash down the drain. A hollowness settles in my chest at the momentary release.

Warmth greets my skin as I pull a towel from the rack. The reflection in the mirror displays the frustrations of last night. Dark circles swath the thin skin under my eyes. Obviously, given my passions, lack of sleep is not uncommon. Rarely has it left me looking this disheveled. No, it was being trapped in a tree all night.

My god. I’ve met beagles with less tenacity.

For hours, she sat there, snapping to attention at the slightest hint of sound. Ready to attack.

I finish my ablutions in a frenzy and slip on my silk pajamas. With any luck, I can get a few hours of sleep in.

Opening my phone, I scroll to the copy of her calendar that Mark so kindly saved for me. She’ll be attending an auction this afternoon. Which means my plans to sleep today are dashed. Rolling my eyes, I set an alarm.

When I close my eyes, all I see is Patience.

9

There has been no rest since I’ve seen that photo of my defaced artwork.

I’ve tried running. Nope.

Reading. Nope.

I even tried Zarya’s suggestion of mediation. Useless.

Unfortunately, my brain is simultaneously exhausted and live wired. Sinking deeper into the bubbles of my bath, I sigh. Usually, the rough feel of the Dead Sea sponge along my skin provides some relaxation. Tonight, it’s failing. I’ve looked at the photo so many times, I could draw it from memory. Every detail. I knew he was there. I knew it. I felt it. The only thing I underestimated was the man’s determination to piss me off.

I grip the sponge, envisioning his neck. My knuckles begin to turn white as I continue to squeeze. My hands fall when I fail to achieve relief. My hands break the surface of the water with a smack. Bubbles erupt from a splash, landing on my face in a soapy blob. Can’t even engage with my fantasies competently. Reaching for the hand towel, I dry off and prepare to face the fucking day.

When I arrive at the auction, I see all the normal faces. Not a sapphire eye in sight. Good. Coward.

Taking my spot at the front to keep my eye on the listings is really a ploy to stay awake at this point. The majority of items in this lot are basic antiques. Only one piece requires my attention. One of my collectors has requested I finish their collection with one painting from Grimshaw.

Shifting in my seat, I get as comfortable as possible. The piece is the most highly sought-after item in the catalog, so it’s no surprise it’ll be one of the last items. The curator rolls out the painting. The auctioneer opens it to the floor and paddles fly up over the heads of nearly every occupied seat. I bide my time until only a few paddles remain.

On the fifth round of bidding, I raise my paddle. The two remaining bidders drop their numbers. It seems I won’t have much competition, after all. Finally, something is going right. I bounce my foot.

The auctioneer accepts a bid from the back. Straining my neck, I try to see over the crowd, but a wall of polyester uniforms makes it impossible. Who needs security here? This is wholly unnecessary.

I raise my paddle again, not registering the price. It’s just noise at this point. Price be damned. It’s mine.

The auctioneer continues rapping away at the block. My unhesitating responses match the speed of his calls. Surely, my client will understand, right? My thoughts cause me to hesitate. The auctioneer’s gavel falls. Flinching when it strikes, I let out a low growl at yet another loss. My original elation plummets into depression before spiraling into immediate rage. Clutching the catalog, I stand to leave.