But my body doesn’t listen.
It remembers the space between us in his office, the way the air felt heavier the closer he got. How I didn’t step back until I forced myself to. How my pulse betrayed me, fluttering wildly while he watched. That’s what I hate most of all; that he noticed. That hesawit. Like my skin was transparent and my body answered him without my permission.
I shift restlessly, thighs pressing together, irritation sparking when a slow, unfamiliar heat pools low in my stomach.
Anger comes easier. I cling to it. He stole my passport. My routes. My options. He framed that photograph like I was something sacred instead of something stolen. Like watching me was a kind of devotion he would never apologize for.
And yet…
My breath catches as the memory shifts, sharp and vivid. His hand lifting, and then stopping so close to my face I could have tilted my head and be leaning into his palm. The restraint in that moment was clear in his eyes. The way his voice dropped when he said my name like it mattered.
LikeImattered.
My fingers curl into the sheets.
This is stupid. Dangerous. I know better. I was raised by a man who taught me exactly what happens when powerful men decide they want something. Wantyou. I should recognize the pattern and shut this down before it sinks its hooks in.
But Leonid doesn’t look at me like I’m something to be used.
He looks at me like I’m something to be understood.
I roll onto my back again, staring at the dark, my heart thudding hard enough that I can feel it in my throat. My skin feels too tight, too sensitive, every brush of fabric suddenly too heavy and too loud. I’m aware of my own body in a way I don’tlike, low heat twisting my thoughts, tension coiling tighter with every memory I try and fail to push away.
His eyes flickering to my mouth. The way he stood close enough that I could smell him. The certainty in his voice when he spoke.
My breath turns shallow, frustration building sharp and hot. I hate that he’s here, in my head, when I should be planning my escape. I hate that part of me is waking up and stretching like it recognizes him and worse…wants him.
I drag the blanket higher, then shove it down again when it feels like too much. My pulse won’t slow. My thoughts won’t behave. Every attempt to calm myself only sends me spiraling back to that office, that moment, that charged stillness where everything changed without a single touch.
“This doesn’t mean anything,” I whisper into the dark, repeating the words I threw at him like a shield.
They don’t convince me now any more than they did then.
My body tightens, breath hitching, heat flaring sharper, more insistent. I squeeze my eyes shut again, bite my teeth together, furious with myself for wanting release, for needingsomethingto break the tension before it breaks me.
Just to sleep. Just to quiet my mind. Just to make him go away.
My hand slides under the sheets without conscious thought.
I freeze.
The awareness hits me all at once. What I’m doing, what I’m about to do, who I’m thinking about even as I tell myself not to. Shame flashes hot, followed immediately by defiance. I’ve been denied choice my entire life. I won’t deny myself this, too.
I bend my knees and the sheet tents, giving me room to slide my panties off and drop them beside the bed.
I’m tentative at first, gentle as I press my hand against my pussy. The wetness I find there startles me, but my fingers seem to know what to do as they dip into my entrance and spread the moisture around.
I moan low as I apply pressure to the places that feel good, images of Leonid filling my mind. His dark eyes, the ink I’ve seen, the ink I’venotseen, the confidence that is commanding and sexy all at once, even if I despise the man for doing this. For bringing me here and putting an end to my freedom after only a week.
I make a sound that’s something like a surprised whimper when the pad of my finger brushes over my clit.
I’ve tried to do this before, but nothing ever came of it, so I figured I just couldn’t. Only this time it’s different.
Sensations begin to build. A heaviness that feels almost fluid fills me. The back of my head presses into my pillow as my middle finger slides around my wet channel. My hips are moving, making circles as I chase something I don’t know how to reach. I imagine what he would feel like beside me, inside me.
Would I beg for him? Would he beg for me?
The thought of him watching me when I was in the vault jumps into my head. The way he could still be watching me, could be watching me to this right now…
