I can’t quite pinpoint how I want him to make me feel; I just know he can deliver.
I want him to make me forget—what, I’m not sure… But something.
Like maybe how my life didn’t turn out the way I’d planned.
Or how tired I am of working so hard for everyone else’s dreams and not my own.
And how it’s such a habit now, I don’t even know what my dreams are anymore.
I’m not foolish enough to think Caden can solve that, because no one can fix that but me, but he can make me forget…for at least a little while.
It’s not an option. He works for us. My brothers would kill me. It will end badly. There are a million good reasons. Besides, he’s made himself clear, and of course he’s right. It’s the smart choice.
But I want him to burn, goddamn it, like I am.
To drive him crazy, like he’s driving me.
My gaze is still trained on the porch, its dark corners.
In an instant, my mind concocts a fantasy.
Of him, watching me from the shadows.
My tongue wets my lips again and I move, brushing my fingers over my mouth once more before trailing them down my neck. A kind of fever takes hold as I envision him watching me.
Even if he’s there, which he’s not, I doubt he could see much.
He’s not there.
But in my fervor, I want to believe.
I let my hands drift to the swell of my breasts. I just want to pretend, out here by myself. I want him to be watching me. I want him hard and aching, feeling caged as he witnesses my actions from a distance.
I keep my eyes on the porch, on that corner where I know the chair is, and conjure him there. I trace my beaded nipples with my fingers, circling through the silk. My head drops back against the cushion, my hips rise as the soft fabric rides up my thighs.
I’m not wearing any panties, and I let my legs widen, so the air brushes my overheated skin.
He’s watching me, I tell myself.
Watching me.
Watching.
The more I think it, the hotter I get.
I pull one strap down, baring a breast, running my thumb over the peak, while my fingers play.
My fantasy takes on a mind of its own, consuming me in an exhibitionist whirlwind I’ve never experienced before, filling me with fantasies I’ve never had and giving me a taste of what I’d do for him, a taste of what it would be like to be under his spell.
What would he do? Stroke his cock? Or watch me?
I think he’d watch, his expression all hard lines and prowling intensity. Yes, that’s what I want—to witness the hunger that’s consuming me in his eyes.
I let the other strap fall and cup my breasts, running my thumbs over my nipples again and again until I’m breathing hard and my hips arch.
I squeeze my legs together and rock up, circling my hips so I can feel the friction between my thighs, nothing but a tease.
It feels so good.
I don’t want to stop.
I never want to stop.
He’s watching.
Watching.
Watching.
I don’t care if it’s a fantasy; it feels true.
When I can’t stand it anymore, I move one hand down my stomach and between my legs.
I’m so wet, so aching.
I part my thighs. Circle my clit with the tip of my fingers.
Light. Feathery.
I stare off at the porch, lips parted.
I don’t want to come yet.
I’m not ready to lose this.
In my fantasy, he’d want me to stop before I go over the edge, want me to drag it out and prolong this show I’m giving him.
So when I’m about to tip over the edge, I move away and return to my breasts, increasing the ache.
Everything gets sharper.
Like it’s the edge of a blade I’m perched on.
I imagine him twisting the knife.
Then I start the process all over again.
Rubbing and touching and moaning as I think of him watching me.
I throw my whole heart into it, letting it sweep me up and push me higher before calming down again.
My whole body is on fire.
Consuming me.
He’s watching.
Watching.
Watching.
Over and over. So close to the edge. Him whispering to stop. Obeying and beginning again. I go on like that, lost and frenzied and mindless, until a fine sheen of sweat has broken out across my skin and I’m so slick and swollen I think I might lose my mind.
Watch me.
Fuck. Please be watching.
And when I can stand it no longer, I push myself over the edge.