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"Camden," I whimper.
"Don't waste your breath, princess. You're no longer in charge."
Was I ever?
"Did you want me to fuck that pretty bare cunt of yours, Morgan? Is that why you gave me easy access today?" The way he shoves his finger as deep as he can and moves his hand with purpose, I know he doesn't only aim to make me come.
He wants to becruel. He wants me frustrated and embarrassed and angry I can't do anything.
Somewhere along his filthy story earlier, I understood something about Camden. Everything he does has a purpose, including sex. He means his actions to be lessons, if not grand manifestos. Does he ever do anything without thinking it through first? I doubt it.
"I didn’t have clothes," I remind him, taking advantage of the fact that my mouth is free, though he warned me my words were useless. "I didn't want to wear the panties I had on WednesdayandThursday.”
One day was yucky enough.
That makes him pause, then step back. "Oh. That makes sense."
And just like that, he's done.
He leaves me reeling, wet, my mouth bruised, my core on fire, and my insides begging for more, and returns to lounge on his sofa.
"Sorry, I assumed you were sending afuck mesignal," he says. "I should have thought to bring you a change of clothes."
"So, you're done?" I check.
He nods. "Yeah, that was off script. I didn't plan to deflower you at my grandmother's shop. Besides, I would have to be gentler than I'd like today."
I'm going to murder him one day.
Internally fuming, I decide I'm done letting him make me feel whatever he wants, whenever he wants, without retaliating. "So, you won't fuck me today?" I clarify.
"Nah. The doctor said the recovery's three to six weeks, right?"
I ignore his question. "Youpromiseyou won't fuck me today?"
He values his word.
Camden rolls his eyes. "I promise. You can calm down."
He assumes I'm rattled because I thought he was going to fuck me, not because I'm literally trembling with rage and barely concealed desire for revenge.
My lips curve up. "Well, in that case…"
I lower the shorts along my legs, and remove my top, unabashed.
The door is closed, and now that I think of it, this room makes a lot of sense. Most stylists would have lingered to see how their clients took their offerings, but insteadValentina left us to it, telling us to take our time. She even suggested I try on her clothing without underwear. This is a fuck room. The rich and famous bring their wives and girlfriends and mistresses right here to have the privacy to do what they want as they try on their next red-carpet outfit. No one's going to walk through this door.
Camden's eyes follow my every move as I stroll to the footstool in front of his sofa, and sit, parting my legs wide.
My fingertip brushes my clit, and I throw my head back at the first touch. I'm so fucking sensitive. More than I ever was while touching myself.
"What are you doing?" I don't miss the tick in Camden's jaw.
"Taking care of my needs, as you clearly aren't fit to do the job." I smirk victoriously.
He got me hot and bothered on purpose, first with that story, then with his mouth and his hand, and then he didn't deliver. So he doesn't get to deliver now.
I am not that great at masturbation, but feeling his eyes on me help, and I fake the rest of it, happy to moan louder just to get a rise out of him. I cup my breast and pinch my nipple, my fingertip still running in slow circles at the heated, wet center.
