"You left this. You walked away from this. From us," I murmur, and grab a large vibrator off the floor that is the closest thing I could find to resemble Red's cock. I turn it on and hold it in front of the camera.
A low, pulsing purr throbs with quiet insistence, soft yet relentless, like velvet thunder trapped inside a whisper, heightening the endorphins building inside me. I play with my tit, and slowly thrust the vibrator inside me, cooing, "Imagine if this were yours, Dr. Mercer. Look at how wet it would be."
Pleasure coils low and vicious. My fingers curl and oscillate. I thrust my hips up as the vibrator goes inside, pressing it against the spot that makes my vision spark.
"Your hands should be wrapped around my throat, now, Dr. Mercer, your rough voice against my ear, telling me that you own me," I taunt.
My back bows. A fresh orgasm rips through me hard and sudden. I cry out, "Oh, Dr. Mercer!" sharp, broken, and furious, trembling while looking into the camera.
The phone keeps clicking on autopilot. I stay there until my pulse slows enough to think. Then I crawl to the tripod, stop the burst, and grab the phone. I open the private Instagram account I created under a fake name.
Last night, I finally hacked into Red's account, had him follow my fake profile, and changed his settings to notify him when I post.
I go through the photos and video. I pick one picture and create two different videos from the footage. I upload three stories in quicksuccession, knowing it'll drive him crazy when they delete in 24 hours.
The first is a close-up of my mouth, lips parted, tongue visible. I add a caption that says,missing the way someone used to ruin me.
The second is a video of my thighs spread, the shirt bunched up, my fingers playing with myself. The caption reads,still dripping for hands that aren't here.
The third is of the fading bite mark on my collarbone. My perfectly flushed skin around it is a bonus. I write in,property of no one now. Looking for a new owner.
When they're all posted, I stare at them over and over with my hands shaking. Satisfaction and grief collide in my chest until I can't breathe right. I slide down on the floor until my bare ass hits the rug.
Red's shirt pools around my waist. I pull the collar to my face and inhale. His scent is fading, and panic claws up my throat.
I curl onto my side, knees drawn tight to my chest, and rock, whispering to the cotton, "You're going to crawl back to me. You're going to fucking crawl."
The candle sputters and dies. Darkness swallows the closet except for the blue glow of my phone screen. I stare at the stories I just posted, waiting for the view count to tick upward, but nothing happens.
My thumb hovers over the screen. I consider sending them directly to his phone, but I hold back from proceeding.
Instead, I open his professional headshot. It's the one from his website. He's wearing a charcoal suit and looks calm, controlled, and untouchable.
I set it as my lock screen. Then I open the camera again, angle the phone down between my legs, and take one more photo, just for me, to prove I can still make my body respond to the thought of him even after he walks away.
I save it to the hidden folder labeled RED. Then I press the screen to my lips, kiss the glass where his face stares back, and whisper against it. "Come back. Please come back."
The apartment stays silent. Only my ragged breath fills the space. I stay on the floor a long time, my shirt twisted around me, thighs sticky, heart hammering so hard it hurts. Eventually, the need to move and do something pushes me upright. I drag myself to my feet, smooth the shirt down over my hips, and pad barefoot toward the living room.
The click from the front door unlocking rattles me. My pulse slams into overdrive. For one stupid, hopeful second, I think it's Red, changing his mind, coming to take back every word he said about space and danger and endings.
But it's not him. Demi steps inside, her black purse slung over one shoulder, eyes sweeping the dim apartment until they land on me. She freezes, then her mouth opens, closes, and finally presses into a thin line.
I don't move.
Her eyes flick from my face to the rumpled shirt barely covering me, then lower to the sticky shine on my inner thighs. She doesn't flinch or look away. She just exhales through her nose like she's been holding her breath since she turned the key. She quietly states, "Babe, this is next-level."
My tongue's thick, heavy from all the words I've been whispering to empty rooms and camera lenses. So I cross my arms under my breasts, which only lifts the hem higher and exposes more skin, creating a fresh sting from the scabs on my thighs. I reply, "You didn't knock."
"I never knock when I have the key." She dangles it in front of me and steps closer. "And since when have you ever wanted me to knock?"
Defeated, I slowly shrug.
She sets her purse on the couch, and her gaze sweeps over to the blanket fort I never bothered to dismantle, the empty wine bottles lined up on the coffee table like soldiers, and the half-eaten container of cold lo mein congealing in its carton. In a teasing voice, she asks, "I guess I didn't get the invite to the party?"
A tiny laugh escapes me.
She walks toward me, and my insides coil. I warn, "Don't."
