My bed.
My jaw tightens. She takes a hesitant step closer, her bare feet silent on the gleaming floor, and I swear my entire world narrows to the way her toes curl slightly with each step.
Her lips move again, and even though I can’t make out every word, the tone says enough: quiet, self-reassuring, like she’s trying to convince herself this is normal. Like she belongs here.
The towel slips slightly, and she adjusts it, clutching it tighter, her expression flickering between hesitation and something that makes my cock stir at the sight, hardening against my zipper.
I finally manage to unstick my feet, stepping forward as the silence between us stretches, heavier than the air itself.
“This is quite the show,” I say to myself.
I take in the sight of her pressed lips, the flutter of her long lashes, and I feel my cock pulse against my pants, throbbing with the desire to see what lies beyond that towel. Christ, I want to see those pretty pink lips wrapped around my shaft, tasting my pre-cum like it’s the sweetest nectar in the world. I want to see that tongue dart out and dance across my tip before she takes me all the way down her throat, gagging on my length until she begs for more.
She moves again, crossing the room like she has every right to be here. The towel clings to her damp skin, and for a brief second, I think she’s finally realized the gravity of her situation—that she’s in my space, standing inches from my bed.
Then she mutters something about weed and rummages through her bag.
I blink.Weed?
A rustle. A pause. Then—
Wait.
A slow, creeping disbelief unfurls in my chest.
She straightens,holding something neon-green in her handslike a relic plucked from the depths of hell.
I stare.
She stares.
We both stare atthe enormous radioactive-green dildonow cradled between her fingers like a sacred offering.
What the actual fuck?
My mouth parts, but words—rational words—refuse to form.
She groans, dragging a hand down her face, muttering under her breath. “This is insane.”
No argument there.
I blink again, slow and deliberate, as if my brain needs time to processwhat my eyes are clearly seeing.
I stare at her, then at the object, then back at her, as if sheer disbelief might somehow make it disappear, equal parts fascinated and deeply,deeplyconfused, as she tilts her head, inspecting the damn thing like it might hold answers.
“It’s self-care, Bella. Live a little,” she says in a voice that doesn’t sound like hers, but given my current state of total bewilderment, I can’t be sure.
I drag a hand over my jaw.
I cannot—cannot—make sense of this situation.
Mafia wars?Fine.Burying bodies?Routine.Boardroom negotiations that double as battlefields?Easy.
Butthis?A half-naked woman in my bedroom, holding a neon-green dildo while having an existential crisis?
Idid nottrain for this.
And yet, I stay frozen, watching—because what else can I do?
