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Even from myself.
The man whose touch can drown the voices, the discomfort while everyone else's, including my own, still scorches like a fire.
I touch the inner bud, and my backside pulses off the table when sensation zaps through me. A reaction of both phantom pain and real pleasure. I groan from my throat, hating the feel of my body as it responds without my consent, but I mask the sound. Mix it with a moan that is visceral because I'm torn in two wanting closure, to please him, to play and show him how comfortable I am in my body but also wanting no one to lay a finger on my skin but him…
Not even myself.
Not my untrustworthy hands. The same ones that gripped Jake's shoulders when he thrust into me. That convinced him I enjoyed it…Did I? Did I convince him? Did he honestly believe I consented with my hands that night?
If not with that, then with my pussy. I consented with that.
Didn’t I?
When I touch myself, the muscles inside me consent when they pulse. And I hate it.
My finger trembles on my slit as these thoughts flood me. I don't want to feel what Jake felt.“A few minutes ago, you were hugging me so tight with your pussy you didn't want me to leave."
It wasn't me.
I did want him to leave.
"So pretty," Clay says, a hoarse timbre wrapped around his voice. "You still don’t trust yourself, sweet girl. Don't be fake with me."
I stop touching myself and deflate on a little sigh. "Is it trust?" I ask softly. "I just wantyouto touch me. That's all."
"You don’t trust your bodyanymore. Your pussy. Your fingers.Yes.You still trust me, but I need you to show me what's mine. Open yourself up in front of me and show me what your pretty young pussy looks like, but you’re not ready. " He rolls the chair an inch closer to me, reaching out to grip the wood either side of my thighs. Enveloping me is the scent I love more than cookies and bread and melting chocolate and all the mouth-watering luxuries I now enjoy daily because of him—the scent of his cologne, of sweet cigars, and warm male flesh. "Do you want me to play with your body, sweet girl?"
I nod. "Yes, please, Sir."
"Such lovely manners… But you have to do something for me first."
I smirk, thinking about taking his cock into my mouth, sucking him until he is the one who is raw with me. "I'll do anything for you, Sir."
A soft smile settles on his lips as he knows this to be true. I mean those words to my core. I'd do anything for this man. I've forgiven him for lying. For using me as bait to try to lure my father out of hiding. For hiding the truth from me.
Because he is my thorns.
The only person in this entire world to believe me, to care for me, to hold me accountable, towantme.
His smile flattens. "You covered the mirrors yesterday, sweet girl," he says, and I cast my eyes down to hide my shame. "You forgot to take the sheet in the dressing room down before you left the room. How long have you been doing that?"
Fuck.Henchman Jeeves—my personal henchman/butler/rat.I know he's meant to watch me, keep me safe, but he doesn't have to share all my fucking secrets.
I mumble, "HJ is such a dobber."
"Boltonis paid to be...a dobber." His finger goes to my chin, and he lifts it until I'm anchored in his crystal-clear blue gaze. "And you know this." He suddenly stands up, a wall of muscles erected before me and so close, so perfect, I struggle not to reach out and roll my fingertips down the rippling plane. I crane my neck to keep eye contact. "Come," he orders, offering me his hand to take.
"That was the whole idea, Sir, but I'm still waiting," I say, my teasing cadence laced with false strength.
His lips tick in a corner, but he says nothing, turning to guide my defiant feet towards the dressing room.
What does he want?
For me to look at myself in the mirror?
I can do that.
I only covered the mirrors because there are so many, too many, and I'm stuck in this house, and they are like shadows following me around every room, and I'm constantly glancing over my shoulder and—
