Doesn’t matter.
He can take care of himself. Obviously. Now that everything is decided between us, we can just do our own thing until the matrimonial month is up. Other than consummating the marriage, we can essentially live entirely separate lives, even if we’re technically man and wife under the same roof.
I promise myself that it won’t be lonely. It will be liberating.
And it will be good practice for when I move into my own place. Away from him.
I rinse my plate and cutlery, putting the dishes into the dishwasher and sliding the leftovers into the fridge. I linger at the fridge for a second or two. But when Curse doesn’t miraculously appear before me, I tell myself I’m being dumb, and go upstairs.
Without much of anything else to do, I take another shower and brush my teeth. I did some laundry earlier today while I was getting organized to pack. The various sets of new pyjamas are all fresh and clean. I choose a thin bamboo nightie. It’s the colour of freshly sliced mango and it feels like a dream on my skin.
It’s late enough that I could probably just get into bed now. I don’t know if Curse still expects me to sleep in his bed or not. He has my word that I won’t run or do anything to mess up his plans. But he had my word on that before, too. And he still handcuffed me to him.
If I go to sleep somewhere else, there’s a good chance he’ll drag me back here. Or just sleep in that other bed with me, his chains at my wrist.
I’ll just sleep in this bed. It’s as good a choice as any other in the house.
I turn out the lights and get under the covers. But now that I’m in the darkened quiet, everything I kept at bay today by being productive comes rushing in.
Worries about sex with Curse are at the forefront.
I’m not worried that it will hurt. Though it probably will.
I’m worried that I will like it too much. The elation I felt last night when he was touching me, when I thought that he actually wanted me, was like a drug. The arousal, the pleasure, the pressure of him hard against my thigh, his hand grinding on my pussy…
Shame and greed are hot in my belly. I still want those things from him, this monster who has replaced the boy I once loved. He’s the only man I’ve ever been attracted to. The only one I’ve ever actually thought about having sex with without feeling even the slightest bit of revulsion.
What will it be like? To have him hard and moving inside me?
I don’t think my poor body will be prepared for him. I’ve never had anything inside myself besides tampons. I wonder if there’s anything I can do to be at least a little bit more ready for our union, whenever it actually happens.
I slide my hand between my legs, through the curls there, to the sensitive skin below. It doesn’t feel the way it did when I was with Curse. I rub myself, but don’t feel that desperate clawing ecstasy this time.
That’s fine. I’m not doing this to get off.
I move my hand lower, pushing my middle finger inside myself.
Even that feels tight. How can I expect him to fit all of himself inside me when even one finger is almost too much? I may not have seen that part of him, but I’ve felt it more than once. It’s big.
He has to be able to fuck me. It won’t work if my body literally won’t let him in. I blink back unexpected tears. This shouldn’t be so fucking hard.
Biting my lip, I shove my finger deeper, ignoring my body’s burn. It’s not comfortable. But I keep going, thrusting my finger in and out. I’m getting hot and sweaty, and in a bout if frustration, I kick the duvet off of myself. Cool air kisses my legs as I spread them and try to add another finger.
I can’t even get the tip of it in alongside the first finger.
I choke back a sob, staring up at the ceiling and panting. Maybe I should just give up for now. I can try again tomorrow.
I don’t get a chance to make my decision. With my hand between my legs and my finger still inside, I gasp as the bedroom door suddenly opens. Light from the hallway pours in, illuminating the bed.
And me.
Chapter 18
Curse
Never thought I’d live to see the fucking day where I’d get to find an angel fingering herself in my bed. I thought Aurora was already asleep. I checked the camera feed in here from my office not long ago, and saw her snug as a bug under the covers.
She’s not under the covers now. They’ve been thrown off. Her exquisite white thighs are spread wide, her pale orange nightie hitched up to her waist. It’s dark in the bedroom, but light from behind me spills over her, lights up her skin, her eyes, the damp strands of her hair.
