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“No, don’t do that,” replies Fran. “Just ride that dick for therapy. Do it for me. I haven’t had any in weeks.”
“Or just tend to yourself,” interjects Rami. “At least you’re guaranteed an orgasm that way, which is more than you can hope for from most men.”
“Stop,” giggle Fran and I in unison as my nervous system begins to finally calm down.
We talk a while longer about Fran’s day, about a woman Rami’s dating, about someone who did the yoga retreat with us, until we decide to call it a night.
I lie back down, staring at the dark craters of the nearly-full moon, my body now bathing in guilt.
I know I have the right to feel upset. I also know the man did nothing wrong. If anything, he protected me.
As my body heats in agitation, I take off my clothes and head to the en-suite shower. I tie my hair up into a messy bun and rinse myself off with cool water, stepping out and into a thin red bathrobe hanging from the door which Grey told me the other day was brand new, bought for me.
Feeling stifled despite the large room, I sit on the bed, taking some deep breaths to try to calm myself down, only I can’t manage it. Instead, I get back to my feet and gently open the door, heading out and walking down the wide corridor of the upper level towards his room on the far side of the house.
Wondering for a moment if I even have the right to go there after making my big speech about how he better not knock on my door, I decide to anyway, just to listen out for signs that he’s awake.
My heart pounds against my ribcage and moisture is wicked from my mouth as my jelly-like legs take me there, my steps onto the hardwood stupidly slippery from the shower.
“Shit,” I mutter breathlessly as I make it past one of the other rooms upstairs, the door wide open, the moon-cast shadows playing tricks on me, conjuring up humanoid figures in my peripheral vision.
My exposed skin prickles with goosebumps, just as it did when I saw that black paint thrown onto my door, something I’ve been trying to ignore so that it doesn’t send me into a tailspin of panic.
As I approach Greyson’s room, I see that the door is pushed closed but not completely. There’s the tiniest sliver of a gap between the inky frame and the even darker door, the grooves of its engraved wood evident in just the faint moonlight seeping into the rooms nearby.
I bring a hand up to my chest, suddenly seeing a monster sleeping inside its cave whose wrath I’m about to waken.
But the thought of the strong pulse booming through his veins has my fingertips reaching for the side of the door, and despite my trepidation, I push a little and a little more, peering inside to see a dense body lying under a thin gray sheet.
From the dewy skin exposed, it looks like he’s wearing nothing. My eyes pan upwards over the rigid slabs of muscle to his face, his eyes closed, his head nestled into a pillow.
I enter, taking a few steps towards the bed, wondering if I should go back, but just as I’m about to turn, I inhale roughly as his eyes open, fixing onto me like a dragon’s in a cave when it smells human flesh.
Deciding that turning back will make me look even more ridiculous at this point, I speak. “Did I wake you?”
“Close the door behind you,” he responds firmly. “And come in. All the way.”
61
Indigo
By the time I've closed the door and turned back around, he is on his feet, completely naked, his cock hard as he walks towards me.
The moonlight bounces off the flexing ridges of muscle, making the skin beneath my robe tingle and my pussy clench as if tightening around him.
My feet tentatively take me forwards a few steps only to stop as he continues his advance. I've never been inside his room before, having only seen him point it out to me from the corridor, but it’s large and dark, the walls painted in what I assume, in the dim light, to be a gunmetal gray.
The huge bed is four-poster and made of wood stained black and intricately carved. The furniture is sleek and elegant with live edges and modern, masculine hardware and finishes. On the walls hang three oil paintings—an oak tree, a wolf, and a field full of flowers.
I gaze up at him as he comes to stand before me, towering over me like a giant, his features sober.
I manage to find my voice despite his arresting presence, refusing to wilt in front of him. “I want to speak for a moment.”
He bows his head.
“I know none of it was your fault, but I’m not apologizing for being upset or angry or jealous, nor for not being happy with your parents. And I’m not changingone single thingabout myself in the hopes of getting their approval. I've decided that I don’t want the approval of people who treat me like that. So… well… that’s it.”
I try to catch my breath, realizing I must have spoken that entire little speech without taking in air.
