Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 77841 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77841 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
My cock begs me to give in. It aches. It leaks. It fucking hurts and begs me to relieve the pressure. Her eyes narrow as I clench my jaw and it slams into me like a ten-thousand-pound truck.
She just figured it all out. She knows I’m not going to touch her. She knows I need more than she does. She knows that it pleases me to watch her. She’s realized these moments in the shower are about my own need, my own desperation, and not that I’m trying to control her.
“Finish your shower,” I snap before spinning and leaving the room. My hand is trembling by the time I press my thumb to the biometric keypad on the bedroom door. If she’s gotten too used to the status quo, then I’m just going to have to mix things up.
Chapter 18
Raya
He didn’t exactly have a plan when I stood here and refused to do what he wanted me to do. He could command me, but the look in his eyes and the erection he had from the second I woke up, told me there was a reason he wanted me in the shower. This little game we’ve been playing, the one where he refuses to touch himself, he refuses to give me that part of him, if he has to ask me to do it, was in full force.
I wanted the command, but I also wanted him to break. I wanted him to tell me to touch myself, and then for him to touch himself too. I don’t know when I got over the guilt. I was failing at doing any of this, but refusing to give him what he wanted wasn’t supposed to end with him storming out of the room and telling me to finish my shower.
I’ll finish alright, I think as I reach down and spend less than a minute getting myself off. If there’s any such thing as a weak orgasm, it’s the one I experience right now with him out of the room. I turn off the water, dry myself quickly with a towel and head back into the bedroom. I hope he doesn’t see the flush on my cheeks and if he does, he attributes it to being upset at being woken up at whatever ungodly hour it is.
I have no real concept of time. The only thing I can base it on is whether he brings in eggs and bacon, sandwiches and chips, or something a little heartier, like pasta or sushi in the evenings. I’m not so sure he’s not bringing me breakfast for dinner or lunch for breakfast just to fuck with my head.
I pat my hair, unsure of why I’m even concerned about what it looks like. I stopped looking in the mirror days ago. I didn’t want to be a witness to the transformation I’ve made. It says if I’ve been reduced to basic human needs—eat, sleep, come, with a little television watching thrown in.
I crave the orgasm as much as I crave the coffee he doesn’t let me drink, but I won’t beg for it either. I don’t have it in me to take it that far. From the way he stormed out of here, it seems he doesn’t either. He still hasn’t touched me, and I still haven’t begged for it, despite the itchiness on my skin every time he’s near.
I’m not one accustomed to touch. Of course, there are pats on the hand and a quick hug and a kiss to either cheek. There are more occasions than I can count where a man leans forward and kisses the back of my hand like Jackson did the night I was abducted. That’s not the type of touch I crave from him. I don’t want niceties and things that are expected in society. But I also don’t know if I want soft and gentle or if I want the grip of his fingers, hard enough that it leaves bruises behind. I chalk that up to things I’m inexperienced with.
I didn’t know I was lacking physical touch until I didn’t have it, until he brought me here and deprived me of it. I could sit on the couch and wait for food. That’s been the routine—shower, sit on the couch, and he brings me something to eat. He hasn’t brought in food before the shower since that first time I refused to eat cold scrambled eggs, but eating is the last thing on my mind.
So, I climb back in the bed and pull the blankets up to my ears. Maybe with his anger, he’ll be gone long enough that I can fall back asleep. Instead of the hour it normally takes me when he turns the lights out, because even in the darkness I can feel him watching me, I’m just drifting to sleep when the bedroom door opens. But like a spoiled child, I don’t budge.