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I arch up for him and press my breasts together.
Moaning, I play with them as he resumes his drives.
His face is a study of tight and beautiful lines as he pounds into me and watches me tweak my raspberry-colored nipples. They’re hypersensitive after my orgasm and I’m spasming every time I pinch them.
His upper lip is pulled down, curled over his teeth, and he’s growling with every stroke. He’s never looked more ferocious, darker than this. More like an animal.
And I’ve never felt more wanton and shameless.
His breathing has changed, become desperate, and sweat is sliding down his chest and his abs. He’s close to coming; I know that. I know the signs.
Just as I knead a bouncing breast and catch a droplet of his sweat at his belly button with my other hand, he tightens up. His jerks become uneven and his black eyes fall shut.
His spine arches, throwing the ridges of his torso into stark relief, as he moans out my name to the ceiling and comes inside of me.
I feel it in my slowly dying heart, that moan, that jerk of his dick.
I sit up and wind my arms around him, bringing us both down on the bed. Groaning, he falls over me.
I’m soothing his back, tracing it with my hands up and down as my channel absorbs his orgasm.
And finally, my body goes limp, listening to his heartbeats.
He’s mine.
The thought floats in my head.
I should feel relief. I thought if I knew he was mine, I’d be happy. I’d be content.
But now that I know he’s mine, I can’t help but think for how long.
I sneak out from her room at dawn so no one sees me.
She’s lying on her side, her cheek pressed to the pillow. Her blue hair’s spread all over and there’s a couple of strands just lying there.
Creepily, I pick them up and wind them around my finger, kiss her forehead, before leaving.
I head back to the mansion through the woods.
In my room, I get out a notebook I bought for myself a few days ago. It was an impulse buy; I’m not proud of it.
In fact, sometimes it makes me downright angry that I have it in my possession. I keep it hidden, out of sight like I’m packing drugs.
I only fish it out when I’m feeling restless. When I’m… missing her.
I sit at the desk, a desk that I haven’t used in years but I’ve been using it kind of frequently.
They say it’s easier to type up words on a computer, recognizing the letters on the keypad rather than trying to make them yourself. Because dysgraphia messes with that.
But I’m not doing this because I’m interested in making my writing better.
I’m doing this because I can’t stop myself. Because she’s in my head. These days, she always is.
So, I pick up a pencil. The strand of her hair’s still wound around the finger of my right hand as I open a fresh page and write:
Cleopatra Marie Paige.
I’m having the worst day.
First of all, I overslept.
Sometime during the night after the mind-blowing sex, Zach and I fell asleep. I slept through the entire night only to be woken up by the sound of his bike.
Turns out it was in my dreams, but still.
It spooked me something real bad. I don’t remember all of it, but I have a blurry picture of Zach leaving this town for good. And I don’t even find out about it until I wake up the next morning and hear all the gossip. Exactly like it happened three years ago.
With a churning stomach, I arrived at work, which I was late for. Meaning, Mrs. S wasn’t pleased at my tardiness and on top of that, I missed breakfast with Zach.
And then, I heard that no one had seen him all morning. He never came down for breakfast and his suite was locked when one of the girls went up to clean.
I couldn’t ask more without the danger of raising suspicion, so I kept quiet and freaked out in private.
Which I hated, by the way.
I hated how he wasn’t there with me when I woke up. I hated that he probably had to sneak out in the middle of the night to avoid running into someone on his way back.
He was doing it to protect me and my job; I know that, but I don’t like it.
I’m starting to hate it more and more every day.
Anyway, it’s lunch now and my appetite is nowhere to be found.
I’m anxious and jumpy and all I want is to see Zach. For him to come back.
God, please make him come back.
I’m in the kitchen with Grace, Leslie and Tina. They’re all chatting Maggie up about the new guests who arrived this morning. Apparently, they have been here before and last time when they stayed over, there was this big scandal about some stolen china.
