Did someone sleep here?
The hair glowed a soft purple lilac in the moonlight.
One of her friends.
I pulled open her nightstand, the usual place for drugs. Empty. I went to the dryer vent. The dust pattern matched how I left it. The camera I’d placed undisturbed. No new ones.
Opened the smoke detector, checking for bugs. I checked the router for unfamiliar devices or Bluetooth signals. All good.
Her closet consisted of rows of sleek, shiny dressers, a wall of backlit shoes, an island with jewelry glowing through a glass top, and two chaise longues. Her dresses were always a finger width apart, pink the dominant color. I paused on the skintight dress she’d worn to the club, the memory of how it hugged her body shooting straight to my cock.
Fuck.
This was a Princess Gemma outfit. I liked Princess Gemma, because I loved fucking up her perfect pink exterior. Still, as I walked toward her shoes, I imagined her in black. That fantasy really fucked me up.
A color as powerful and darkly feminine as she pretended she wasn’t.
Shoes were the same, jewelry the same. There was nothing hidden in the first dresser. I pushed around scarves, still nothing.
I went to the second dresser. Her underwear was neatly arranged and color coordinated in its velvet-lined shelf. I pushed them aside and found a ziplock bag of loose pills.
Bingo.
I shoved them into my pocket, ready to shut the drawer, and paused. Gemma always had exactly ninety-seven pairs of panties in rotation. I counted ninety-six—she’d worn nothing tonight, and her laundry was done daily.
Where the fuck did it go?
That fucked sense of possession slid into my veins and I pulled out my cock. I wanted to mark her like a goddamn animal. Anyone who came near her would know.
Unmarked, unclaimed, not off limits.
I fisted my cock, stroking it over her perfectly aligned rows of panties.
I’d long since accepted that Gemma Crowne was more than a passing fixation. She was inside me, burrowed so deep in my marrow that even trying to get her out would render me lifeless.
But this wasn’t how this went. I didn’t fucking jack off into her clothes like a psycho in some early-2000s movie. I came in, I checked things, and I left.
But the idea that someone was here,someonehad touched what belonged to me, twisted me up. That off-limits, forbidden fantasy where Gemma Crowne wore my mark has me fucked in the head.
I gripped the wall above me as an anchor.
Her colorful panties blurred with each stroke. The real Gemma Crowne was messy, dirty. That night on the beach I hadn’t just seen it, I’dfeltit. The room dissolved and I was back there, back between Gemma’s thighs as she begged me to fulfill her fucked-up fantasies. Back when I consumed her illicit ecstasy, her sighs, her perfect, tight pussy.
Her skin dimpled beneath my fingers when I gripped her hips.
Her legs found my back, pushing me deeper.
I gripped harder, stroked faster, a strangled, involuntary groan leaving my lips.
Fuck.
I hadn’t fucked anyone since her.
It had been five years, I was basically a monk.
I’d tried, but nothing compared to her. Gemma said the dirtiest fucking shit when she got going. I only saw her pristine princess act slip away once, but now she was stuck inside me. Every goddamn time I came, I heard her husky voice telling me to make her cry.
I grabbed a pair of her panties to smother my come.
