I’m about to exit when he posts a picture. I click on the notification so fast I’m scared I actually alert him to my presence.
It’s a selfie of him lying on a bed, half-naked as usual, as he places a hand on his stomach — the same stomach I wrapped my legs around not long ago. The same stomach I rubbed myself on so he’d release me while having a crazy thought of What if he doesn’t?
The caption says: In the mood for some debauchery.
Swallowing, I click on the picture to study his messed-up hair and the slight smile on his face.
It’s like we’re still in that room. He’s pinning my wrists against the wall as my nipples brush against his naked chest and my core is sticky with arousal on his stomach.
My hand snakes under my pyjama shorts and cotton underwear to find my folds — my wet folds.
It’s still such a weird sensation to be wet. I have a toy and I touch myself, but it’s felt so bland, so uninteresting, even, that I started to wonder if I’m somehow asexual.
Right now, though? As I stare at his face, at his hand on his stomach where I was not long ago, there’s no asexuality whatsoever.
I rub my fingers over my clit and my lids flutter closed. Rich brown eyes invade my thoughts, and I moan then hide my face in my pillow to muffle the sound.
He’s gripping me by the wrists, pinning me, making me helpless as he dry-humps me over and over again.
He’s kissing me hard and fast and he’s touching me, flicking my clit, twisting my nipple —
I come.
I don’t even know how it happens, but my body shakes and I free-fall into a feeling so addictive I want to restart all over again.
My eyes snap open, and I find his face in that picture.
What the hell is he doing to me? Why am I letting him?
I pull my hand from between my sticky legs, feeling disgusted that I let him, a pawn, get to me this way.
He won’t.
Absolutely won’t.
I start to tuck the phone away then notice I clicked like.
Oh no.
No, no, no.
I remove it immediately. He probably receives a thousand notifications, so surely he didn’t notice it.
Just when I’m about to throw my phone to the ground, it vibrates with a text. I startle, my heart nearly jumping into my throat when I make out his name.
Ronan:Hey, stalker *winking emoji*
He noticed. Oh, god, he noticed.
What is wrong with me today?
But fuck him, really. I won’t reply.
When I ignore his text, he sends another.
Ronan:How-about-no98 is an interesting username, by the way.
I glare at the phone as if I can wrench him out of it and punch him in the face.
Ronan:Also, your scratch still hurts. Want to come kiss it better?
Teal:I should’ve scratched you harder.
I curse myself as I hit Send. Why the hell am I even indulging him? I broke so many of my patterns today, and it’s all because of him. I should stay the hell away from him to avoid any other disaster.
Ronan:Pain. Yum.
My legs clench, and the orgasm from earlier feels like it’s rising to the surface all over again. Just how can he elicit this reaction from me?
But if he thinks he can get me out of my element and receive no retaliation, he has another thing coming.
Teal:You’re not my type. Get over yourself.
Ronan:And what’s your type, ma belle?
Teal: My type is at least fifteen years older, experienced, and doesn’t smile the entire time like a gigolo on crack. In short, not you.
I feel a weight slide off my chest as I send that text. I needed to remind myself of that fact as much as letting him know, because that’s what’s bothering me about the whole thing — the fact that he, someone not even close to being my type, is invading my thoughts this much.
There’s a long pause before he sends his next text.
Ronan:And yet you came when I only touched your tits.
Teal:That’s because I didn’t know it was you.
Ronan:Is that why your arousal still coats my stomach?
My cheeks heat and I curse him all the ways to Sunday.
Ronan:It’s all dried up, but it’s there. You saw it on that IG pic. I’m not washing it off.
Teal: You’re sick.
Ronan:I like to think I’m not sicker than you, ma belle, but I love the competition.
Ronan:Cancel the engagement and I might fuck you.
I might fuck you? Might? As in he’s gracing me with his damn cock? The arrogance of this bastard.
Teal:As if I would ever want to fuck you.
Ronan: I think we should both agree that you did tonight.
Teal: I did not.
Ronan:Sure. Whatever helps you sleep better at night.
I can almost imagine his smirk, and I want to smash his face and this stupid feeling of embarrassment with it.
Ronan:Night, ma belle. I’ll dream of your orgasm face.
I throw my phone to the side, seething, my heart beating so hard it’s nearly dangerous.
He thinks it’s fine to play with me? He’ll see what playing means.
9
Ronan
There’s this thing about breaking habits that messes with the human brain.
Or that’s what Cole says. I believe him, anyway, because he reads more than the pope reads the bible.
My point is, breaking my habits is what’s making me weird. I can see it loud and clear now.
I went from throwing a party every other night, smoking my stash of weed, and fucking exotic girls to living like a priest.
The partying part can be overcome. Not only does Lars no longer bitch at me to stop, the absence of night fun also means Mum is home. I get to have breakfasts and dinners with her every day. Needless to say, her presence matters more than all those other strangers who only exist in my life because I have money and status.
Mum being here also means Dad is around, too, and that kind of sucks, especially since he’s been watching me more closely lately.
Lars and I have put on an Oscar-level performance each time he’s asked about a missing item.
Or rather, I put on the performance and Lars follows along. It’s become our thing since that night.
The excuses usually follow the same pattern of What? We had that? We must’ve given it to friends.
Dad reminds me that we don’t have that many friends, and I tell him of course we do. They just visit when he’s not around because they seem to love me. It’s like he’s baiting me to admit something, and for some reason, it doesn’t feel like he’s interested in the partying part.
The only untouched things are Mom’s paintings, which she’s spent years collecting. She studied art before she had tremors and had to stop drawing altogether.
Or maybe that’s the version of things my father came up with to convince her to remain a housewife — or rather his bloody secretary, whom he paraded around the globe.