Rosalind
He didn’t make me come.
At the restaurant yesterday. He didn’t make me come.
Nikolai brought me to that edge over and over again until I
couldn’t see straight, until I couldn’t breathe. Until the world existed only of him and every electric, teasing thing he did to me. I can still feel and remember every single moment.
When he fingered me the first time, right before the waiter came over, he pulled his hand free to my inner thigh, let go of my wrist, and kissed the living hell out me.
After that, he just touched me, making it known we weren’t done. I burned for him, and most of it… wasn’t an act. The waiter set down the wine and the appetizers, some smooth meat thing he said was duck liver mousse.
“You’ll love it, Rose,” Nikolai murmured in my ear.
“I don’t like offal.”
“Eat it.”
He kissed me, licked my throat, my lips, and made me try it, fed me the wafer-thin slices of toast he topped with mousse. Yeah, I liked it. Loved it. After that, he picked up the wine and held the glass to my lips to drink, kissing and licking my mouth after. His hand stayed on my thigh, slid back to position, just where I wanted him. Craved him.
It stayed on me through the spicy oysters with the avocado, right there at the entrance to my pussy, toying with me, teasing.
Then came the steak and the fries that weren’t potato.
“Parsnip,” he said, feeding me bite by bite. Steak and sauce, fries, slender green beans. “Good for you, little Rose.”
More wine to wash it down. Not enough to get drunk, just enough to feel loose. Not that I needed it.
Through it all, he played with my pussy, sliding his fingers into me, working my clit. It was all so borderline orgasmic that when he didn’t make me come, when he whispered an order to pretend to come, I hated him.
I had to do it. I Meg Ryan’d it and pretended to come, but on a more down low, understated rung. Before and after, I had to smile lovingly, laugh and sway into him. Pretend I wanted whatever he did to me, pretend I might love him, pretend I worshiped him.
Some of that came too easily for my liking. Not love, not worship, but the want and the lust and the drunken feel of being in his orbit, his space, having him invade me on every level, make me sing and want to do everything he asked.
I hated that, too.
Now? I pace my room in the remnants of his shirt. The dresses and shoes are gone. I have the choker on still, and I’m not sure why. It’s gorgeous, sure, and it’s the singular most expensive thing I’ve ever worn, but I also know what it means.
It’s a claim, a stake, an announcement of whose property I am.
Nikolai Carter Wilder.
I want to hate it, but I can’t seem to take it off.
My little taste of freedom, if you can call it that, was yesterday and now I’m locked in my room again, pacing a damn hole in the floor, fever high in my blood. It’s a fever of want and need and the fact that I’m so horny, I don’t know what to do.
Every so often, I press my ear against the door, but I can’t hear anything. Occasionally, a voice wafts up when someone passes, but it’s never Nikolai. My heart never beats faster, there’s no shift in the air like when he’s near, and it’s not his voice I hear.
All day he’s stayed away, and I hate him for it.
Last night was bad enough. When we got back, he went from hot and all over me to cold and dismissive. I won’t lie and say it didn’t hurt. I know it shouldn’t. I know I should have thanked whatever higher power I could that he wasn’t trying to sleep with me, but the horrible thing is I wanted, needed, to get off. It was a giant slap in the face to have him turn his back on me, like we’d walked off stage and the play was done.
I close my eyes.
I’m dying inside for his touch. My belly quivers and the throbbing ache between my thighs, the one that keeps me wet, hurting, wound up tight, won’t go away. It just builds. All I can think of is his mouth, his tongue, his fingers, that gorgeous, gorgeous cock.
I keep fantasizing over what it would feel like inside of me. I’d say fuck it and take care of myself if I didn’t think he might be watching. Those threats, all of them, keep running through my head. If it was just a spanking
I’d be risking, then…
But I don’t know what he’s capable of.
Or rather, I do.
I just don’t know how far he’ll go, or what side will emerge if I push him the wrong way.
So, I keep my hands away from my pussy and I curse him in my head.
Suddenly, someone knocks on the door and the key turns. I step away from it and pull the shirt around me, crossing my arms. It’s not him. The air isn’t taut, and he really isn’t about to knock.
Sylvie the maid enters, which is odd because I’ve already had most of my meals for the day, and it’s not time for dinner yet. She doesn’t look at me and I go to say hi, but I stop myself.
I’m thinking her not talking to me, not looking my way, has nothing to do with fear or submission and everything to do with her crushing on Nikolai.
Well, hands off. He’s- What? Mine? No, no, no. He’s not mine, but if he wants me, I’m safer than if he has some other piece to distract himself.
I pause as she holds out a tray. No food. Nothing but another stupid rose and a note. I take them and she turns, shutting the door loudly behind her.
“Good luck-you’ll never have him.” The words shock me the moment they leave my mouth. The vicious sting to them is something I don’t have an excuse for.
Instead, with need for Nikolai clawing at me alongside my hatred, I bite down on the note, ripping apart the rose at the same time, hurling the remnants across the room.
Not feeling better at all, I open the note and stare at its contents, my hatred rising up in my throat like bile.
Rose,
My room.
Naked. Now.
-N
I hate him. I do. I also hate the eagerness that snakes through me, alongside the cruel uptick of my pulse and the spike of excitement. I want him so badly, I’m shaking. I want his touch so desperately, I can barely stand it.
I’m nauseous as I strip off the shirt and try the door. She didn’t lock it. Naked, I pad to his room, spying golden light spilling on the hall’s floor. I tap lightly then step in, the door cracked open.
I’m pretty sure my lungs have stopped working.
He’s standing at the foot of his bed, folding the shirt he’s just stripped from his body. He’s a study in erotic perfection. Utterly masculine. Lithe. Beautifully muscled. Covered in tattoos. There’s a line of what looks like Latin in cursive script down his spine, angels and demons and monsters writhing in what looks like some dark hellscape on his back and down his arms. The art follows the tapered line of his torso and disappears beneath the waistband of his trousers.
Nikolai isn’t wearing shoes and when he turns, I actually audibly gasp.
The pants are low slung, the top button undone, and his tattooed chest and abs-the same theme of gods and monsters covers those, too.
He is perfection.
I think I might be drooling.
I’ve never in my life seen a man so beautiful and masculine and sexy as him. He just looks at me, a slight frown marring his face, those lean cheeks slicing light and dark from his cheekbones, the light of his lamp making him a glorious art piece cloaked in shadow and gold.
“Rose.”
I haven’t seen him naked, but I want to. The need to see him fully burns inside me and I’m sure he can see the evidence of my arousal everywhere. Around him, I’m constantly wet. Always aching. Needing. Wanting.
My hand floats out, and I snatch it back. I want to touch him, run my fingers, my tongue over those muscles. I want to strip him bare, see his cock, feel the weight of it in my hands, the girth.
Hell, I don’t just want to see him naked-I’m dying to.
“Rose,” he calls again, a note of exhaustion in his voice that catches in my chest. “Naked, pretty little Rose. Come here.”
My feet move of their own accord until I’m right in front of him, my breasts brushing against his skin.
“Eager.” He laughs a little, brushing my cheek, the tips of my breasts with the back of his hand. “Just how I like you. Ready and willing and waiting for me.” He dips down to whisper against my ear. “Wanting.”
I suck a breath in, and it catches, skittering. The heat of him, the power, winds around me like some kind of spell, a bond.
I can’t help myself anymore; I put my hand on his chest.
He doesn’t tell me not to.
“I had a fuck ton of work today, so…” He picks up my hand and sucks two of my fingers into his mouth before letting them go with a pop, and it
sensation flies straight to my clit. “I couldn’t see you.” A dark thrill rushes my blood at those words.
“Nikolai, I…” I stop. I what? Am I going to complain to him? Plead with him? Ask him nicely? I don’t know. The only thing that seems to exist is him and my need and what he does to me.