I hate it.
Hate that my body has learned to want something I was taught my entire life to fear.
Hate that I lie in bed at night staring at that rose gold vibrator on my nightstand, remembering how it felt, wondering if I'm brave enough to try again.
Hate that every time I see Vaughn at breakfast or dinner—those twice-daily encounters where we sit across from each other and pretend the air isn't crackling with tension—I think about how his hands felt guiding that vibrator over my clothes,how his voice sounded when he told me to let go, how he looked at me when I came apart.
Hate that I'm starting to forget why I should hate him.
The Sanctuary taught me that desire was sin.
That my body was shameful, a vessel that existed only for procreation and male pleasure, never my own.
That pleasure existed only for men, and women who sought it were corrupted, fallen, beyond any hope of redemption.
Good girls didn't want.
Didn't crave.
Didn't touch themselves or think impure thoughts or let their bodies respond to anything except their husband's demands.
Good girls submitted. Endured. Accepted.
But the books Vaughn gave me say something different.
Say desire is natural, healthy, normal.
Say women's bodies are designed for pleasure just as much as men's.
Say there's nothing wrong with wanting to feel good, with exploring your own responses, with understanding what brings you satisfaction.
And my body—traitorous, weak, desperate—believes the books instead of the Sanctuary.
Believes Vaughn instead of everything I was taught for twenty-three years.
Believes that maybe, possibly, I'm not broken or sinful for wanting what he showed me.
That's the most dangerous part.
Not the wanting itself, but the way it's changing how I see myself.
Making me question everything the Sanctuary taught me.
Making me wonder if I was lied to about more than just pleasure.
If everything I believed about myself, about women, about God and sin and righteousness, was just another form of control.
Vaughn is doing to my mind what he did to my body—showing me it can respond in ways I never knew were possible.
And I don't know if I'm being liberated or manipulated.
Hell, I don't know if the difference even matters anymore.
On the second night after Vaughn touched me, I tried to recreate it myself.
Waited until the house was quiet, until the last sliver of light had faded from my windows and darkness wrapped around the estate like a blanket.
Until I was sure Vaughn was in his office or his bedroom or wherever he goes when he's not watching me.
