THE KEYHOLE
You wander the halls like a lost child. You chase shadows across the lawn. I taste your hunger, Annalisa, not for company, not for food, but for my touch.
My dear, sweet girl. I am more than aware you still exist.
You think you’re alone here. You think the silence is empty.
It isn’t.
You ache to be seen, to be desired, to be fucked. But when I come for you, Annalisa, you will beg to be left alone.
Because, my pet, no one ever leaves Rochester Manor. Not unless I wish it.
Sleep, if you can. I’ll be closer tonight.
You. Are. Almost. Ready.
ELEVEN
Ten minutes later, I stand outside the study in the east wing, my palms slick with sweat. My pulse pounds so hard that its reverberations reach my clit. Loneliness has my mind conjuring up a dozen different scenarios: the handsome widower professing his devotion, inviting me to sit on his lap or ordering me to bend over for his pleasure.
Lord knows it’s been an eternity since I’ve had a man’s touch. Sometimes, I hate myself for leading with my libido. But sexuality has kept me alive these past years. It’s probably too late for me to change.
In a second, my pussy will become slick and urge me to flirt with Mr. Rochester. Shame washes through my veins like acid. Why does my body choose now to wake up?
Clenching hard, I force myself to breathe. This is just a meeting. Nothing more. Or an update on the little girl’s typhus fever.
The thirsty bitch inside me keeps circling the timing of Mr. Rochester’s summons. It was right after that handwritten note, telling me to wave back. Now I’m picturinghim as the man from the lawn. The one who haunts my dreams, panting and thrusting, hidden behind that mask.
Shit. I really need to get laid. Or find something brutal enough to silence the relentless need.
Movement from behind the door snaps me out of those thoughts. I roll my shoulders, raise a hand and knock.
“Come in.”
His voice hits low and deep, and my thighs clamp like they’re trying to trap the sound. Suppressing a sigh, I step into a wood-paneled study lined with leather-bound books. A huge mahogany desk sits in the center, stacked with writing materials. An old fountain pen lies atop it, still dipped in ink. But the high-backed chair behind it is empty.
I step inside, wiping my palms on the skirt of my dress.
“Hello?” My voice echoes through the elegant space.
Silence. It’s the kind that makes me shudder.
I turn, my gaze sweeping the room until I spot an alcove between two bookshelves I hadn’t noticed from the door.
Seated behind a smaller desk tucked in shadow is Mr. Rochester. He doesn’t look up, just continues writing with an old fountain pen. His dark hair catches the lamplight, accentuating the sharp line of his jaw. The muscles work beneath his skin as he concentrates.
Lamplight brings out the mahogany in his black hair, casting a bronze glow across his brow. It frames cheekbones sharp as blades and a jaw cut from stone. Rugged and brooding, he bends to his writing, lips pressed tight. I sigh. How can one man be so devastatingly beautiful?
I wait for him to look up. To acknowledge mypresence. But he gestures toward a small wooden stool in front of his desk without lifting his eyes from his document.
“Sit.”
My stomach dips, and I swallow back a surge of disappointment. Was I expecting him to gaze up at me and say something roguish? Maybe. I walk toward the stool, letting my heels click against the hardwood floor.
Most men would look up at this point to check out my footwear. Or at least glance up to see what’s making the sound. Mr. Rochester acts as if he’s immune to feminine company.
I settle onto the stool, which puts me slightly below his eye level. It’s a power move, but I play along. The fabric of my dress pulls tight across my lap as I sit, exposing my thighs. One glance at Mr. Rochester tells me he’s either completely disinterested or drawing out the tension.
