Babygirl,
You were made for this.
Keep that necklace on and stay wet for me. Keep thinking about the way I filled you and how deep I went.
Start practicing how to beg. Your Wolf will return soon.
—B
A shiver rolls through me.
Still no name. Nothing but heat, command, and the promise of more.
I stare at the blank burner screen, stomach fluttering.
I don’t understand the rules of this. Whateverthisis.
It’s not a relationship. He’s not my boyfriend. We didn’t exactly make small talk last night.
And yet, I ache for him. God help me, I ache.
I pick up the phone, thumb hovering over the screen. Should I text him? Would that cross some invisible line? This isn’t dating. I can’t ask how his morning’s going.
He said he’s coming back. Does that mean I wait?
Or can I reach out first?
Shit. I need to talk to someone who won’t flinch when I say I let a nameless man blindfold me, tie me up, and fuck me without mercy.
No kisses. No sweet words. Nothing soft. Just commands and filthy words and hands that knew exactly how to break me open.
And I let him. I wanted every brutal second.
Only one person comes to mind. I call Brielle before I can talk myself out of it. She answers on the second ring, chipper as ever.
“Morning, sunshine. Back to thegrind?”
“Ugh… don’t remind me.” My inbox is probably already drowning. “Can you do lunch today?”
A pause. “Depends. Are we talking basic bitch salad or wine and secrets?”
“Definitely wine and secrets.”
Brielle doesn’t ask questions. “Savreaux’s at noon?”
“Perfect. I’ll text you when I’m leaving.”
I stretch under the sheets, my body still thrumming. The ache between my thighs is a perfect echo of every thrust, growl, and command. He left me in a puddle of sweat and sex and satisfaction.
And I didn’t want him to go.
I finally drag myself out of bed and into the bathroom. I wash away most of the evidence from last night, but some of it lingers. A faint bloom of red stains the side of my neck—a hickey from his rough kiss. I dab concealer over it, but it still throbs, carrying its secret beneath the surface.
The necklace stays. It’s more than jewelry now—a sign of his ownership.
I make it to work, coffee in hand, and I spend the morning trying to focus. Legal briefs blur, and words bleed together. All I can think about is B. His hands. His voice. His cock. His obsession.
Myobsession.
