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I’ve never regretted anything I’ve done. There’s no room for it in my life. There’s too many things that Icouldregret if I allowed it, too much blood, too much death. If I allowed myself even an ounce of regret, even a second, it could swallow me whole. Paralyze me, make me incapable of action without questioning my decisions first.
And in this life, that’s a death sentence.
I walk up the stairs, but instead of going in the direction of my room, I find myself turning down the hall, walking past the guest rooms, all the way down to the one that I designated for Sofia. It’s no coincidence that it’s the room furthest from mine. I didn’t want her close, didn’t want the temptation of knowing she was only a door or two away. I wanted there to be as much time as possible for me to talk myself out of it, if I ever found myself heading towards her bedroom.
The fact that she somehow has so much sway over me, that I would evenneedto safeguard myself against her, is more unsettling than anything I’ve ever seen or done in my life. No woman has ever made me feel as if I might lose control, as if I might not be able to stop myself from being overwhelmed by desire. I always,alwayshave the upper hand when it comes to women. Even in bed, even in the very height of passion, I always know what I’m doing. There’s always intent. I’ve never lost myself in pleasure.
On the surface, almost nothing about the room has changed. The bed is neatly made, there’s no personal possessions scattered about—all of Sofia’s things are still back at her apartment. It’s all clean and tidy, but as I stand in the middle of the room, something about itfeelsdifferent. When I breathe in, I can smell the scent of shampoo and detergent and cleaning products, the faint hint of whatever the stylist used on her hair still lingering, but there’s something else there too. I can smell her in the air, that soft powdery sweetness of her skin that I inhaled when I held her up against my front door, and I’m suddenly hard all over again.
Achingly, throbbing, rock-hard, standing in the middle of my fiancée’s bedroom.
I feel like a fucking pervert.
The closet door is hanging open, and I walk over to it, noticing something lying on the floor. When I pick it up, I realize it’s the tiny black dress that she was wearing the night that I rescued her from the Russians. Just the sight of it brings back the memory of seeing her lying in my bed, of feeling her soft curves pressed up against me as I held her up against my door. It brings back the memory of her lips on mine, of one single, searing kiss that told me that for some inexplicable reason, when it comes to Sofia Ferretti—
I’m the only one who is well and truly fucked.
I clench my fist, wadding the dress up in my hand, and without thinking bring it up to my nose. It smells like her, like the sweet floral perfume that she’d had on, like that soft powdery scent of her skin. My cock throbs angrily, the memory of breathing that scent in as I pinned her wrists above her head flooding over me, and I feel momentarily unhinged.
Out of control.
Overwhelmed with lust like I’ve never felt before.
Before I’ve realized what I’m doing, my hand is inside my suit trousers, wrapping itself around the aching length of my cock and yanking it out into the open air, stroking feverishly as I breathe in Sofia’s scent. All I can think about is what else might have happened that night if she’d given in, if she hadn’t bitten me, if she hadn’t stopped me. I can imagine myself picking her up, shoving that tiny black dress up her thighs and pulling her panties aside, sliding my fingers into her to feel how wet she must have been before shoving myself into her as deeply as I could, letting her feel what it was like to have a man inside of her for the first time.
My fantasies spin out of control as my hand speeds up, feverishly stroking myself as I imagine carrying her upstairs, bending her over my knee with that dress shoved up above her pert little ass, bringing my palm down on it again and again as she writhes in my lap, squirming against my hardening cock until she learns her lesson not to run, not to deny me. I imagine pushing her down to her knees between my legs, watching her open those full lips for my cock. I can feel my groin tightening as I imagine pushing myself into her mouth, feeling the warm, hot pressure of it as I teach her how I like to be sucked, watching that soft pink tongue slide down the length of me until I’ve had enough, until I’m ready to bend her over the bed and shove myself inside of her at last, looking at her reddened cheeks, still stinging from my palm, a reminder that she’s mine, mine…mine.
“Fuck!” I moan aloud as I feel my cock throb in my fist, my hips thrusting forward as I squeeze the head of it in my palm, feeling myself come in a hot rush into my hand as I stand there in the doorway of the closet shuddering, my muscles rigid with the intense pleasure of the sudden, violent orgasm.
And then, as the last shuddering, hot drops spill into my palm, reality comes back like a slap in the face.
What the fuck?
What the hell is wrong with me?
Even with as active of a sex life as I have, I’ve jerked myself off plenty of times. Sometimes the mood just hits and there’s no time to make a booty call, sometimes you just need the clarity of a good, quick stroke. But never, since the day I discovered what my cock could do, have I ever stood in a woman’s closet and stroked myself to a climax while breathing in the scent of her perfume from her fuckingdress.
It’s a step up from her panties, I suppose, but still.
What the fuck is she doing to me?
I’m not a teenage boy, to lust over the idea of fucking a girl—any girl. All it would take is a phone call, and any number of my one night stands would trample each other to be the first one in my bed if I were feeling horny on a Sunday afternoon. And for fuck’s sake, I just came fromchurch.
There is no reason, not a single one, for me to be standing and clutching my wilting cock in my hand, sticky with my own cum, fantasizing like a lonely seventeen-year-old about the one girl who refused me. Who turned me down.
Who toldmethat I wasn’t allowed to touch her.
Me.
“Fuck.” I mutter the word aloud again, this time with an entirely different inflection as I drop Sofia’s dress back onto the floor, striding to the bathroom as quickly as I can to clean up.
I don’t know how Sofia’s gotten into my head. Worse yet, I don’t know how to get her out.
But I’m going to have to figure out a way, and fast.
Because this has gone too far.
Sofia
