Four days.
Ninety-six hours of watching Zara walk past me as if I were a stranger.
Ninety-six hours of lying in my own bed with my hand wrapped around my cock, stroking myself to the memory of her.
To the sound of her moans.
To the way she’d clenched around me in that bathroom, her body betraying every word she wouldn’t say.
And then I’d lain there, covered in my own release, feeling like a fucking teenager who couldn’t control himself.
Every night, I’d hear her moving around in her room. I’d imagine her in my oversized t-shirt that I’d left in her closet—the one I’d deliberately placed there, hoping she’d wear. I’d picture her hair spread across my pillow, her lips parted, her hand sliding between her thighs.
Did she touch herself?
Did she think of me when she did?
The thought made me harder than it should have. Made me hate myself more than I already did.
But I couldn’t stop.
I’d wake up hard, my sheets tangled, my mind filled with images of her. And then I’d see her at breakfast, sitting acrossthe table, eyes fixed anywhere but mine, and I’d want to grab her. Pull her into my lap. Make her feel what she did to me.
But I didn’t.
I let her have her space.
I let her pretend I didn’t exist.
Because that’s what she wanted, wasn’t it? That’s what she’d said—“I’m not your property, Lorenzo”.And I’d proved her wrong. I’d grabbed her in a public bathroom and fucked her like I was staking a claim.
I’d told her I owned her.
And she’d come, anyway.
That was the part that kept me up at night. The part that drove me crazy. She’d pushed against me, but she’d also pulled me deeper.
I didn’t know what to do with that.
If I was being honest with myself, I didn’t know what to do with her.
And now, days later, I was standing in front of the mirror, adjusting my bow tie, preparing to take her to a gala where she’d have to play the role of my loving wife.
I didn’t know whether she’d do it.
I didn’t know if she’d even come out of her room.
But then I heard her door open.
And I turned around.
And the air left my lungs as if I’d been punched.
She was wearing a black dress that followed every line of her body, dark and liquid, catching the light. The back was bare, all the way down, showing the long line of her spine, the subtle dip of her waist, the gentle curve of her hips.
Her hair was up. Dark curls pinned in some intricate style that left her neck bare. A single strand brushed against her cheek, and I wanted to tuck it behind her ear. More than that, Iwanted to press my lips to that spot just below her jaw where I knew she was sensitive.
She looked like a queen.
