I’m left sprawled on the mattress, thighs still parted, nightgown rucked up around my hips. My foot tingles with remnants of his mouth and my pussy aches with unfulfilled need.
What the hell just happened?
I press my legs together, hating the wetness, hating myself for being so aroused.
He’ll return tomorrow night. I have no doubt. And I don’t even know if I’ll be able to tell him to stop.
FOURTEEN
THE KEYHOLE
I saw how you writhed on the bed, arching your back, exposing that pretty wet cunt. You were needful. A desperate little thing.
That flush on your cheeks, the way your hips move, the way you ache only for me.
You’re not the first I’ve watched in this room, Annalisa. But you might be the hungriest.
For now, I’ll listen. I’ll wait. I’ll count the beats between your sighs. Until the day you’ll beg for my hands. I shall wrap them around your throat. Then I’ll gaze into those stormy blue eyes of yours while you beg me to stop.
You lie awake now, twisting in sweaty sheets, wondering if it was a dream. Perhaps it was. You’ll find the answer the next time I return.
FIFTEEN
The next morning, I stand in the shower with one foot propped on the white porcelain edge of the tub. Warm water cascades down my body like I’m in a luxury spa instead of a creepy manor. Steam coils around me, and I wait for the usual groggy ache in my skull. But there’s nothing. No hangover. No fog. Like someone’s flipped a switch.
Last night wasn’t a figment of an overactive imagination. The bruise on my ankle is real as hell.
Dark purple marks wrap around my skin like a bracelet. They’re finger-shaped impressions that definitely weren’t there yesterday morning. I run my thumb over them, pressing until they sting. The pain shoots straight up my leg and settles in my core with a throb that makes me bite my lip.
His hands were on me. He worshipped my feet. And I begged for more.
My pussy clenches at the memory of his tongue dragging along my sole, slow and deliberate. The heat of his mouth when he sucked each toe. The way he moanedagainst my skin like he was getting the best head of his life while grinding against my bed frame.
Any normal woman would be disgusted. Traumatized. Planning her exit. Instead, I’m standing under a hot spray, getting wet just thinking about it, wishing he’d done more than worship my goddamn feet.
I press harder on the bruise, using the pain to ground myself to reality. This is proof. Proof that I didn’t dream the whole thing. Proof that a man was in my room, molesting my extremities.
The question is: who?
My mind keeps going back to Mr. Rochester. Because nothing else makes sense. That summons was a power play. He cataloged my assets like I was room service. But would a classy, aristocratic gentleman sneak into the servants’ quarters to suck toes?
Maybe.
Rich men are kinky. Gil liked to fill all my holes with toys when we were fucking. Not to mention the masks. A guy from New Jersey I met at a club draped himself in leather, put a collar around my neck, and walked me around the hotel room like a dog.
Without warning, the water turns ice cold, making my stomach flip. I scramble out of the shower with a shriek. My nipples go rock hard from the shock, and I wrap myself in a towel. Even the plumbing in this place is torturous.
I jog out of the bathroom, dripping, delirious, desperate for a burst of warmth when I spot a folded piece of paper on the floor. Fingers trembling, I hurry across the room to pick it up. The handwriting is different this time, not the elegant script from yesterday’smessage, but simpler. Scrawled by someone untrained in the art of penmanship.
Mr. Rochester requests your presence for breakfast in the dining room. Seven A.M. sharp.
My breath catches. This is it. Confirmation of my midnight molester. He probably wants the morning-after conversation, and I have no idea what the hell I’m supposed to say. Thanks for the foot worship, boss. Next time maybe we could try actual penetration?
Now I’m cracking jokes. This situation is so fucked up.
I get dressed, throwing on the black uniform that still strains across my tits, and run the towel over my hair. My hands won’t stop shaking as I try to button the front, and I give up after the third. Let him see my cleavage. It’ll remind him where his mouth should have been last night.
Goosebumps prickle up my arms. What is it with me and enigmatic men?
