I am at my wit's end, feeling like there's a bomb in my chest and my dick that's about to go off, leaving destruction in its wake from here all the way back to the mainland. If I don't find some relief, some way to ease this tension, there's no telling the consequences of the explosion.
There are only so many times I can fuck my fist; only so many goddamn towels and tissues in this house to deal with the messshe's created. I can't do it again. It doesn't even help anymore, doesn't ease the ache at all.
Her moans carry across the hall and into my room as her mind wanders to visions of her bent over the kitchen table, one of my hands in her hair, pulling her until her back is arched enough to bite into her neck as I use my other hand on her clit, making her come all over me as she feels the warm dribble of blood running down between her breasts, leaking all over the steel countertop.
As she falls apart in her fantasy, the sound of her orgasm in the real world brings my world into a scarlet haze, pulling a growl from my chest as I fight against the urge to barge in there and see how much louder I can make her scream.
She imagines how fucking full she'd feel with me inside her as her body would squeeze around me, dreams of me bringing her past the point of pleasure, skating on the edge of pain. I crave seeing how she'll stretch around me.
I'm losing my goddamn mind.
As soon as her fucking period was over, something inside of her snapped, and she started playing with herself every chance she had. She has the decency to turn her music to a deafening roar, but I still hear her.
Her thoughts, her sounds, even the last taste of her I hadweeksago have imprinted themselves in my head so thoroughly I'll never be rid of them.
Finally, once she's pulled every dreg of pleasure out, I get blessed silence.
I throw myself out of bed, a predator needing a distraction, lest I tear apart the only prey within 200 miles.
Coffee.
Spiked, preferably.
I'm going to lose my fucking mind if I stay sober for even one more second. The alcohol won't help much; I would need a lotmore than a single drink to find any comfort in it, but I have to start somewhere.
Pouring myself a scalding hot cup from the pot, I search the cupboard for something other than tequila.
A beautiful dark whiskey appears in my line of vision, the closest thing I'll find to solace in this hell.
A gorgeous woman is fucking herself and thinking of me. Why is this a problem again?
Through the foggy layers of lust clouding my mind, I have to try very hard to find a reason this is bad.
Isla hates me. But the sex would besofucking good. She can point a gun at my head while I make her squeal, then we'll both be happy.
Isla made it perfectly clear that her sexual power is a wicked, wild thing. One that can be used against me without any remorse, leaving me aching and utterly defeated. But she also wants me, against her better judgment.
She made this into a game, a contest. Who's going to break first. And I'll be fucking damned if it's me. Based on how she's imaginingmyface andmycockandmyfingers when she gets herself off, she's going to break first.
It won't fucking be me.
Itwon't.
And yet, here I am at the foot of her bed four hours later.
Sound asleep, she lies almost perfectly still. Her chest rises and falls in a slow rhythm, the ebb and flow of it comforting and enraging all at once.
She's showered since her last self-romp, but even still, this room smells of her sex. Her stupid toys are meticulously put away, thankfully for her. Otherwise, they'd be my next victims, on a one-way trip out to the middle of the frigid waters of the Strait outside.
I ease into her mind with a gentle nudge, whispering calm reassurances to keep her from waking at the intrusion. Blissfully blank, she leans into my voice, welcoming it like she's been waiting for me.
While I can't force her to remain asleep, I can keep her calm and hope for the best. I just need to get a little closer, I need to feel her in my palms, make her body bend for my touch.
She needs this, too. She thinks she can get it from a toy and her imagination, but deep down, she must know nothing will compare to the real thing, raw and unhinged. I'm under no impression Isla and I could be companions, but this primal pull is unlike anything I've ever known, and I know she feels it, too.
With my influence on her mind, I feed her another fantasy.
Well, I guess I shouldn't say fantasy since it's so very, very real. Isla justthinksshe's awake.
