He takes a step closer, his expression softening just a fraction. His eyes hold a glint of something I can't quite read. It's not pity. It's not mockery. It's… something else. Something deeper. More profound.
I remember that conversation. I remember the way my hand trembled as I held the pen, the way my cheeks burned as I read the words on the page. Edging. Orgasm denial. It had all seemed so abstract, so clinical on the paper. So… sexy.
And now it's not abstract. It's real. It's this throbbing, desperate ache in my core. It's this shaking, trembling need that makes it hard to think straight.
"I'm trying it for you," I whisper, the words ragged. "I didn't think you would really... not let me. I didn't know you'd just leave me hanging."
"I'm not leaving you hanging," he says calmly. "I'm teaching you. You're learning that your pleasure is a gift from me. And you don't get to decide when you open it."
The words should make me angry. They should make me feel used, objectified.
Instead, they make a fresh wave of heat wash over me.
And, as predicted, I didn’t stay dry at all.
"For how long?" I whisper. "Until lunch? Until the end of the day?"
A devilish smile spreads across his face. "That, Erica, would be none of your business."
My jaw drops.
"Fix your hair, then get back to your desk. You’ve got a lot of work to catch up on. And remember, that means no touching either. At all. I have a call in a few minutes.”
He takes a final look in the mirror before turning and walking out of the bathroom, looking perfect as ever. While I stand there, mouth agape at his back, wet and needy, no panties, and hair a complete mess from his hand gripping it.
I am utterly, completely ruined.
And he just left me here.
My reflection in the mirror looks exactly how I feel. Disheveled, flushed, dazed. My lips are swollen, my eyes are wide with shock and lingering arousal. I run a shaky hand through my hair, trying to tame it into something resembling professional. It’s a losing battle. I look like I’ve been thoroughly fucked. Which, I suppose, I have. Just not in the traditional way.
The ache between my legs is a constant, throbbing presence, a reminder of the pleasure I was so cruelly denied. Every movement, every brush of fabric against my sensitive skin is a fresh torture.
I want to yank my skirt up and touch myself so badly. Just a little. Just to relieve some of the pressure.
I splash cold water on my wrists because somehow, miraculously, most of my makeup survived the encounter.
After digging around in the drawers, I find a brush and manage to tame my hair into something reasonable.
I take one last, shaky breath. I can do this.
I can go out there and sit at my desk and pretend like I'm not on fire, like my entire world hasn't just been tilted on its axis.
I can.
Maybe.
I take one step away from the sink and almost collapse on shaky legs.
Oh God. I can’t do this. How the hell am I going to do this? It’s like torture. I’m so hypersensitive to everything. Even my clothes are turning me on. How the hell am I going to get through the rest of the day like this?
A horrifying thought occurs to me. Maybe it won’t just be one day. What if he leaves me like this longer? Days? A whole week?
…More?
I steel my legs and force myself to move. I can’t let him know how much this is affecting me.
When I open the bathroom door, Nico's on the phone, standing in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the city. He looks powerful, imposing, completely in control. The sunlight glints in his black hair, and for a moment, I'm struck by how handsome he is. Devastatingly.
