Torment is being on stuck on a tiny yacht… okay, so it’s not tiny. It truly is a mega-yacht complete with spa, helipad, and swimming pools, plural. But with Axel on board and an audience in every direction, it’s small, way too small.
I want to get him alone and then I want to…
Ugh, what do I want?
To tear him a new one while tearing off his clothes – God, yes.
Pin him, kiss him, curse him.
Anything to take back control and see this ache gone.
But then I’d be playing straight into his hands.
Letting this – whateverthishas now become – continue before we’ve signed on the dotted line.
And I may have a dedicated legal team, but even they can’t draft a contract on a few hours’ notice, especially one like this. It’s so far out of their usual wheelhouse, I’m surprised I haven’t been inundated with questions and maybe even a recommended therapy session.
I tap my phone resting on the bar top, open my email for the umpteenth time that day, and…
Nothing.
I have a billion other emails, all marked urgent – membership churn in New York, profit slipping in Paris, Singapore’s launch bleeding cash, a PR mess in Milan – but not the one thing I actually want.
And that shouldn’t matter, not today, not when I have Sadie’s celebrations to think about.
But it does.
Because I want Axel. And this time, I want him onhisknees.
Yes, I want to make a baby, but I want to make him beg too.
Last night, surrendering to his control in such a vulnerable way, thriving off his praise, having him break… I shiver with thrill of it even now.
But then he’d walked. Left me in a frustrated heap. And I’m going out of my mind trying to kill off the buzz. It’s unnerving, burrowed way too deep, impossible to ignore, equally impossible to control or sate without him.
And believe me, I’ve tried. Three failed DIY attempts later, and all I’ve done is wind myself tighter.
It’s utterly ridiculous, and totally unacceptable.
I’ve spent my life building walls to avoid feeling too much, needing too much. But here I am.
Needy. Reckless. Frustrated at myself for every pulse of it.
Truth is, I don’tneedhim to make me feel good, or whole, or wanted. I know how to be all those things without him. But damn it, I want him anyway.
His praise, his touch, his control…
And I know how fucked up that is.
It doesn’t take a genius with a psychology degree to know I have daddy issues, and probably a truckload more besides. And now he’s flipped the switch on our relationship, I can’t go back to seeing him asjustAxel: my best friend, my rock, Axel.
‘Here’s your mimosa, Miss Stone.’
Charlie sets the glass down in front of me, the soft clink of crystal and the twitch to one of her manicured brows feeling like a tut-tut to my wandering head.
I lock my phone and plaster on a smile. ‘Thank you.’
‘Is there anything else I can get you?’
