I came.
He’s placating me. Watching and helping me orgasm to what end? To keep me docile and complacent? To make sure I’m too tired to get in my car and take off? To use as a weapon to get me to behave?
Pissed beyond anything I’ve ever felt before—and that’s saying a lot because my parents know exactly what buttons to push to make me seethe—I go into the bathroom and clean up, not needing the stickiness between my legs as a reminder. The erratic heartbeat I’m still dealing with is memory enough, thank you very much.
I’m not sad, and as much as I want to, I don’t feel used either. I begged him for what he gave, practically squirmed my way off his lap the second he touched me, my skin on fire with need. Truthfully, I wanted to be exactly where I ended up the second he lifted me from the lounger and carried me away over his shoulder.
What I’m livid about is the walking away, the rejection he continues to toss my way. It seems to be a habit of his, but isn’t it just as much my fault for putting myself in the position for it to happen again and again?
I’m such a damn fool.
But, and this is a huge but, he should stop letting things get so far if he knows he’s just going to up and walk out.
His cock was hard, a steel rod against my belly, unmistakably… big.
Do men get lost in their heads, listening to that voice instead of obeying what their body is demanding? I seriously thought that was a myth, a man who could control himself.
Maybe I was wrong. I’m always wrong so it wouldn’t come as a big surprise. I splash water on my face, but it does nothing to rid my cheeks of the pink there. I’m flushed, still overheated from the best experience of my life, but that’s not going to deter me.
I’m loud and obnoxious, not one to cower and hide away when I’m annoyed. I’m a lot like Sasha, undeterred by attention when I have something to say. I refuse to go to bed with a million unanswered questions in my head. If he doesn’t want me, then he can freaking tell me so to my face.
The sound of the party still going on startles me as I come down the stairs. How did I forget I had people over? Maybe because they aren’t real friends, and I was only using them as a shield against being alone with Flynn. I see how well that worked.
Flynn moved rooms yesterday, apparently so disgusted with the way I acted while touching myself that he couldn’t wait a moment longer, getting as far away from me as he could.
Ignoring the visitors laughing and having a good time in the pool area, I cross the house toward the staff quarters. I came down here to force his hand with the understanding that he’s about to tell me to fuck off, but the closer I get, the more I hope he reaches for me instead. Every step I make increases my loneliness. Him touching me was amazing. His skill tending to my lady bits was pure perfection, but deep down, I know it was the time, the attention, how we were the only two people that existed in that moment.
“Ms. Blair.”
My feet freeze on the marble like a deer caught in a set of headlights.
“Mr. Torres.”
He grins like he’s surprised but pleased I remember his last name. I was raised to remember. Forgetting someone’s name is a travesty according to my mother.
“Your guests are having a good time.”
I smile, knowing it doesn’t reach my eyes, and I’m doing my best not to fidget or look in the direction of Flynn’s new room.
His grin spreads, making it evident I’m not fooling anyone. He knows why I’m down here and exactly where I was heading.
“Are you going to join them?”
My brow furrows.
“The people you invited tonight?”
“Umm, no. Actually, I was headed down here to ask Fly—I mean Mr. Coleman to ask them to leave.”
“How do you know he’s in his room?”
One eyebrow hitches as the corner of his handsome mouth twitches. He’s wearing a shirt now, but it doesn’t hide his muscular frame when he crosses his arms over his chest as he leans against the center island.
Because that’s where he always runs to when he rejects me.
“I… umm… is he out by the pool?”
I turn around, ready to run and come back