Unlike Bruce. Bruce definitely judges me.
I close the door with a heavy sigh and drag myself back inside. I’m pretty sure I’ve located every single camera in this ridiculous princess-suite, and I made it my personal mission to point a middle finger at every one of them. I even managed to break one, but the rest are so high on the ceiling that I have no chance of getting rid of them.
So here I am, comfortable on my sofa, fourth glass of wine in hand, trying to hit the camera above me with walnuts like some drunk sniper. Whoever’s watching this feed is either laughing their ass off or filing a complaint with HR.
Do secret criminal organizations have HR? Doubt it.
My peace is interrupted when I hear tires outside, actually sounding more like a motorbike. Two, maybe. Or just a huge car, I don’t know, I’m so dizzy from the alcohol.
It’s getting dark, soft rain is clapping on the French windows. The sound makes me comfortable. I love autumn. Everything isquiet and cold. Like the world finally shuts up for a second. I stare out the windows.
During my first and last exploration of this manor, before I got sidetracked by a bit of homicide, I figured out my suite takes up an entire wing of the first floor. The other wing remains a mystery. I was going to investigate but then, well. Life happened. Drama happened. Him.
I flop sideways onto the sofa, head dangling off the seat, legs thrown over the backrest like I’m posing for some tragic painting. I’ve committed to the aesthetic tonight and took myself on a little date here. Candlelit, strappy Jimmy Choos on, silk white cocktail dress hugging all the nice parts of my body, red lipstick like blood on porcelain.
I look beautiful. I know I do.
And for a second I pretend I’m not held hostage in a gothic fever dream. For a second I imagine I’m somewhere in the city. In a warm café, dim bar, people laughing, music humming, life happening around me instead of these echoing corridors full of secrets and men who refuse to speak words longer thanMiss Soldan.
What day is it?
Friday was the kidnapping. Then unconsciousness. Twice. Adrien’s lap. Great. Could be Tuesday. Could be Wednesday. Which means I am, most likely, officially missing.
Reality seeps back in. The giant grey walls, the massive empty space, the candle flickering like it’s exhausted too. Portishead plays softly from the speakers and my chest tightens with that familiar loneliness that sits right behind the ribs and waits.
God, I’m drunk.
Drunk enough I might cry if someone breathes too loudly. My eyes drift up—to the camera right above the sofa. Black glass staring right back at me.
“Are you watching me?” I whisper, even though I know he can’t hear.
I tilt my head at it. Slow. Curious. A little reckless.
Are you there, Kasien? Are you watching me?
I stare into that little dead eye and, for a moment, let myself imagine him on the other side. Alive, breathing, seeing me like this.
He’s somewhere on the other side of this manor, watching me, peeling off his shirt from the warmth of my stare bleeding through the cameras. I can see him in my mind, shifting on his sofa, getting comfortable, legs spread, lowering himself into the cushions so he can rest his head on the backrest, his phone in his left hand, eyes glued to the screen. His right hand tugging at his belt buckle.
I set the bowl of walnuts on the table behind my head and stay where I am—upside down on the sofa, heels hooked into the backrest, my head dangling over the edge, hair spilling all the way to the floor.
I drag my fingers slowly along my thigh, imagining his touch, the rough edges of his scars instead of my soft skin.
I slide my hand to my inner thigh, moving up and down in slow, teasing strokes. With my other hand I slip one shoulder strap of my dress down, revealing the white lace underneath. Then the other strap, pushing them both down to my elbows until my chest is fully exposed, nipples hard under the sheer fabric. The songGlory Boxfills my ears as I close my eyes and let the fantasy keep unfolding.
The trail of hair under his navel is black and thick, like a road to hell. He unbuckles his belt and undoes the zipper, uncovering the bulge pressing to his boxers.
I slide my hand to my core, feeling how the lacy material covering my pussy is completely wet, and slide my fingers slowly and tenderly up and down the lacy triangle.
He curls his fingers around the waistband of his underwear and slides it over the bulge, freeing his cock entirely, the veiny thing hard and ready.
I gasp, my chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. I slide my hand under the lace of my bra and circle my middle finger around my nipple, imagining his mouth there instead.
He grabs his cock at the base, holding it, not taking his eyes off me.
I spread my legs a bit more for him, one leg comfortably resting over the backrest, the heel flying in the air, the second leg bent, the heel sinking into the material of the sofa. I slide the lace covering my nipples down, so both my breasts are free and pushed up even more, as I sink my hand in the panties, feeling the slickness almost dripping. I drag my fingers from my clit down to my entrance, up and down, spreading the wetness.
He grips his cock and starts moving slowly up and down with his hips hitting his fist. The scars on his wrist tightening, veins pumping as he leans his head more backward from the pleasure, not blinking, still watching me, never taking his eyes off my little show.
