“Who?” He curls his digits.
I gasp. “Y-you. Mr. Rochester.”
“That’s right.” His thumb presses hard against my clit, bringing me so close to climaxing that I cry out. Thesound echoes off the tile walls, adding to the delicious tension. “You’re mine now. My little servant, my good girl.”
The words should piss me off after all the shit I’ve escaped. I’m no one’s servant, no one’s possession. But something about Rochester makes me want to submit. Maybe it’s the sexy voice. Maybe it’s the way he plays my clit like a concerto. Instead, his words send me spiraling higher, my body responding to his possessive praise.
He adds a second finger, stretching my walls. He adds a third, and it feels like more than just digits. Like he’s trying to own me from the inside. His thumb works my clit in tight circles while those thick fingers pump in and out with a rhythm that drives me insane. I lose track of my history, my troubles, and become nothing but sensation. All I can focus on are his hands on my body, the water streaming over our heads, the filthy words he whispers in my ear.
“You love this, don’t you?” he growls. “You love being told what to do in the dark. You love being owned by a man you can’t even see.”
The thought of giving myself completely to anyone is terrifying, but he’s right. I need his protection. I need his pleasure. And damn it, there’s a part of me that preens at being his property. Shit. I want to be owned by Rochester.
“Tell me something, little toy.” His voice is dark velvet, curling around my spine. “You love being owned by me. Controlled by me. Wrecked by me. Say it. Admit you love being used.”
“Yes,” I sob. “Yes, I fucking love it.”
“And you want this game of ours to continue?”
“Please,” I cry, my hips jerking.
“Then you’d better come on my fingerslike a desperate little slut. Show your master who owns this pretty pussy.”
“Fuck,” I scream.
His digits quicken around my clit, and the thick erection rubs against my back. Rochester continues his filthy tirade until an orgasm hits me like a torrent. Molten ecstasy rips through my body with such devastating force, my legs buckle. He wraps an arm around my waist to keep me from face-planting into the tile.
“Come, little pet. I’ve got you,” he groans as wave after wave crashes over my senses.
I ride the rhythm, my pussy clenching around his fingers. I babble things I won’t remember, shuddering against him until my body folds in on itself like it’s trying to collapse. Pleasure destroys every coherent thought, drowning out his words of comfort.
When the orgasm finally subsides, I lean back against his chest, boneless and shaking, feeling his heart pounding against my spine, feeling his cock still hard and demanding against my back. Hot water continues to pour over us both, washing away the last of my doubts.
I’ve never felt so completely and utterly conquered. Or so full of euphoric hope. He’s keeping me despite his daughter leaving for the mainland because he needs me as much as I need him. I get it now. This lonely widower yearned for companionship, and I’m the one who can fill his heart.
My eyes flutter shut, and I sigh as he lowers me to the tub, feeling safer than I have since arriving on this cursed island. If he wants to fuck, he’s going to have to take me from behind because I’m spent.
But he presses a kiss to the top of my head, so gentle it makes my chest ache. “Rest, now.”
Before I can ask what he means, he steps out of the bathtub.
“Wait,” I murmur.
Footsteps pad away in the dark, and the door clicks shut. The water turns cold, shocking me back to reality. I’m sitting naked in the tub, my body still humming with aftershocks, and Rochester has left without demanding anything in return.
What did I do wrong?
I struggle to my feet on unsteady legs, grope around the walls with shaking hands and turn off the tap. My mind buzzes, charged with the memory of what the hell just happened. I can still smell him, still feel the ghost of his touch on my skin.
Questions crowd my brain as I fumble around for a towel. How did he get into my room? How did he know I was showering? Has he been watching me this whole time? And more importantly, why on earth isn’t he staying the night?
The next morning, after the most relaxing sleep I’ve had since the murder, I wake before dawn. My body still sings with the memory of Rochester’s hands. My spirits still soar with ecstasy from last night and my chest warms at the prospect of seeing him again. I know he’s my masked admirer, and I know he wants me.
Last night changed things between us and marked the start of something important. He claimed me, called me his property, wants me to stay. It might be foolish to hope this means anything real. But I can’t help it. This is exactly what I need.
After dressing, I hurry to the kitchen to make a special breakfast for two. It’s a perfect French omelette with herbs I found growing in the kitchen garden. The toast is golden, the butter soft, and I use a fancy Earl Grey blend of tea that smells like heaven.
I set the dining room table with a bouquet of wildflowers from the garden arranged in a crystal vase between our places. My heart flutters. I want this to be the start of something intimate.
