My skincare routine is barely a routine. I seldom remember to do it. Still, the cool cream is silky as it soaks into my arms, my neck, and my legs. I apply it liberally, languidly, taking my time like she’s watching and this is her preview.
I’m still waiting for her to jump out at me when I leave the bathroom to go to my dresser in search of underwear.
Maybe she’s the one who took the missing pair.
I’ve barely straightened from sliding on a pair of cheeky underwear when I see something move behind me in the mirror. I stiffen, but the fraction of time between noticing her shadow and the moment her arms slide around me is so minute that I don’t even have time to take another breath.
A smooth, gloved hand glides over my stomach, another around my neck. Even though I glimpsed her, I still flinch, still squeak at the ascension of her shadow practically swallowing the air around me.
Pyramid studs and sequins delicately scratch my bare shoulder.
“Did you miss me, rockstar?”
Her disguised voice is the haunting melody that’s kept me awake since first hearing it.
I don’t think I can answer—I don’t know how. Part of me wants to refuse her, tell her that she’ll never deserve to touch me.
Yet I’m numb in her grasp.
I blow out a heavy breath, a little groan escaping behind it as I nearly collapse in her arms. My shoulders and knees give way. I can see the gleam of her outline in the mirror, and my gaze snags on the slackened way I’ve relaxed in her arms. I want to speak, to say something snappy about the anxiety I’ve felt waiting for her all night…
However, her touch does something to me that makes me forget how to speak.
She latches her hand down on my throat, the other teasing the hem of my cheeky panties, and my eyes close as if just the feeling of her arms around me is the salvation I’ve been searching for. The fingers around my neck dig into the soft, delicate spots on either side of my trachea, and the motionmakes me squeeze my thighs together. I groan, my knees weakening.
“You did, didn’t you?” she coos. “Did you dream about the way we left things?”
A breathy gasp leaves me as I try to form words. “Yes,” I manage.
“Tell me what you dreamt about,” she says, her fingers drifting beneath the lace. “Tell me…fuck, Bonnie.”
God, I know I’m soaking right now.
Her temple hits my ear, the studs raking over my skin. “God, you’re such an eager little slut, aren’t you? Did you dream of my tongue or my fingers?”
I rock my hips back, meeting hers like a sad slut eager for attention—who,fuck… I think she’s turned me into one.
“Both,” I say, grinding against the glove.
“Oh, I bet you did…” She pinches my clit between her thumb and forefinger, and I whimper with the ache.
I should be running. I should be telling her no, not practically drooling over her.
Except all I can think about right now is how much I want her to fuck away my last fraction of sanity.
Sabotage and self-loathing are the self-harming mechanisms they don’t talk about, and ones that I’m far too familiar with.
It’s an ongoing cycle: throwing away what could be a healthy relationship with someone right in front of me for a stranger in the dark, telling myself that I’ll never deserve real happiness after what I did to my mother, after the accident with my ex, after all the things that I’m at fault for. It’s throwing myself into the arms of someone who’s hurt people in the past for me, who’s never let me see their face.
“Finish me,” I breathe out.
Her other hand leaves my neck. She snakes those fingers into my hair and yanks my head back, prompting me to suck a sharp breath between my teeth.
“Say it again… Say you’re mine. Say you want me to ruin you.”
“Yes,” I whisper.
“Louder, rockstar. Use that lovely little voice of yours.”
