I'd jerked off thousands of times before. But it'd always been clinical, more a release valve than an urge. With no solid imagery to back it up.
This was different.
I thought about all the times we met in person. I thought about her hands, the subtle curves of her body. I imagined her tongue wetting her lips and her mouth taking me, then the pressure and the heat of it as she sucked my cock. I pictured her straddling my lap, that pale blue satin dress I saw her wearing the first time we met bunched at her hips, bare thighs gripping my waist. I imagined her reaching down, guiding me inside. The thought made my knees threaten to go. I bit down on my own arm to keep from making noise.
You're one twisted motherfucker.
You're fantasizing about the things that will never happen.
I stroked myself with hard, fast pulls, the friction sending shards of light up my spine. I'd never let any of my previous Bureau-approved hookups see me like this. Never let myself think about it, not really. I'd always shut off all emotions before it could get this far.
But there was nothing to stop it now. My whole body locked up, every muscle tight as wire. I saw her in my head—her hair, her eyes, the tiny,gasping sound she'd probably make when she came. I saw her fingers claw at my back, pulling me closer, not letting go even when it hurt.
When I came, it was with a violence that shocked me. I slipped, hit the tile with my shoulder, felt the noise reverberate through my bones. The world blinked white, then red, then went hollow and gray.
I sagged against the wall, chest heaving, the steam still shooting from the showerhead. My cock twitched in my hand, sensitive and raw. The water washed everything down the drain, leaving nothing behind.
I took a deep breath and spent a full minute trying to ground myself. Then, gazing at the ceiling, I pondered whether Father might watch a recording of me jerking off later.
Despite assurances that there were no cameras in our private areas, I had serious doubts.
Just to be an asshole, I raised my hand, shoved the middle finger at the possibility of the unseen cameras, and silently mouthed, "Hope you enjoyed the show. Fuck you."
36 kimmy
I couldn't get comfortable in the safe house.
Not because it wasn't secure, but because I felt useless. And perhaps because Seven was absent.
I considered calling him but didn't want to disrupt his work. He had a tight two-week timeframe to handle his final target before Margaret's return made things dangerous again.
At night, anxiety overwhelmed me. I'd toss and turn for hours, listening to the rain, looking at the digital clock on the nightstand, trying not to imagine what would happen if the person hunting me found this place.
Just like Seven promised, a program had been installed on my phone and laptop to conceal my IP address. He texted me shortly after he left, giving me an all-clear to use my devices.
So I followed my daily routine.
First, I called Dr. Carney to pause our sessions.
Then I worked.
When I wasn't working, I watched self-defense videos. Depending on a man—however appealing he seemed—I barely knew for safety felt inadequate. That's why learning some new techniques was the sensible thing to do.
Today was my third time through the chokehold playlist.
The instructor was a chipper blonde with biceps the size of my thigh. I mirrored her palm strike, her defensive stance, her wrist grab escape. Mymovements didn't look nearly as crisp, but I kept at it anyway. Practicing without a partner was pointless, but it was better than nothing.
After the wrist grab came the hip throw. I practiced with a rolled-up blanket and nearly threw out my back. The loft echoed every grunt and breath back at me like someone else was in the room.
Eventually, repetition wore me out. I fell back against the couch, gasping. My hands trembled—not from effort, but from the residue of fear that never quite left unless Seven was around.
I didn't want to call Margaret too often. I considered the possibility that her phone may have been bugged. Plus, I didn't want to interrupt her vacation. Or maybe I didn't want her to ask questions because my gut told me that she suspected something was off even though she'd agreed to the vacation.
I checked on her after she'd landed in Nassau and the next day to see if her accommodations were acceptable. In response, she'd texted a photo of herself in a touristy straw hat. Her grin was so wide you could almost hear her laugh.
I'd saved the image to set it as my phone background.
I'd ignored Brynn's call the other day and felt guilty about it.
