I start drawing, imagining the scene. The hot water, the slick tile against my back, his hands gripping my thighs as he lifts me?—
Wait.
Shower sex is terrible. Everyone knows that. Water is theopposite of a lubricant. It would be uncomfortable at best, painful at worst. Plus, the logistics of not slipping and cracking our skulls open.
What if it doesn't satisfy him?
I catch the thought mid-spiral.
Why do I care if it satisfies him? This is supposed to be about what I want. My erotic chapter. My fantasies.
Except I do care. I want him to look at these drawings and desire me the way I desire him. I want him to make them come to life. Want to?—
Fuck.
I tear it out.
Fourth attempt. I need a different approach—one that carries real meaning, as ridiculous as that sounds.
I'm a waitress. Shy. Ordinary. The girl who blends into the background, who smiles politely and doesn't make waves.
What's the opposite of that?
Complete and utter exhibitionism.
The window.
The massive floor-to-ceiling windows that make up an entire wall of this penthouse. The ones overlooking the city, forty stories up.
My hand moves before I can second-guess the decision, drawing us against the glass. Him behind me, my palms pressed to the window, the city below us like we own it. Like we're claiming each other in full view of anyone who might look up.
I can imagine how it would feel. Cold glass against my overheated skin. His heat at my back. The exposure, the vulnerability, the thrill of being seen—or thinking we might be seen. The way he'd hold me, forcing me to watch the city while he takes me, makes me his in the most primal way possible.
My thighs clench. This one. This is?—
Wait.
I stare at what I've drawn.
This is also insane. We're forty stories up. No one can see us. But also, what if someone can? What if there's some creep with binoculars, or a security camera, or?—
And I wrote "being claimed by my captor" in my head like it's romantic instead of weird.
FUCK.
But I don't tear this one out. I set it aside and start the next page.
Hours pass. I draw and redraw, each sketch exploring a different fantasy, another position. Various ways of giving him control. Some are explicit. Some are suggestive. All of them feel like handing him pieces of my soul.
My hand is cramping when I hear footsteps outside the door, followed by a knock.
"What?"
The door opens a crack, and Pyotr's massive hand extends through, holding a plate. "Lunch."
I take it, and he's already turning away when I see what's on it.
A poorly made sandwich. The bread’s already getting soggy, and the cheese isn’t even centered.
