Page 45 of Adam
He’s a bastard.
But he’smybastard.
And I don’t know whether I want to slap him or kiss him until I forget what I was angry about.
I close my eyes and try to push the thought of him away, but all I do is feed it.
That unreadable stare, strong enough to pin me down with a look alone. Because, fuck, I haven’t stopped thinking about him since the second he looked at me.
The way his eyes dropped to my throat when he said that jealousy suits me. The way I want to see if he’d say my name, or just fuck it out of me instead.
I’m restless. Sweaty. Agitated in a way I can’t pretend is just insomnia.
My room feels suffocating, as if the walls corrode around me.
I squeeze my thighs together, hoping it’ll pass, but it doesn’t.
“Fuck it.”
I throw the blanket off and slide my hand straight between my legs like a fucking addict.
My fingers slip through the mess, and I moan under my breath, furious at how badly I need this.
I’m already wet, already needy, and that just pisses me off more.
I start rubbing, slow at first, then harder when it doesn’t help.
My hips jerk. I grind against my hand like I’m trying to fuck myself. And I kind of am.
Pathetic, I think.
I tell myself I’m not thinking about anyone. Just the feeling. Just getting off so I can sleep.
That lie lasts about ten seconds.
I’m picturinghim.
Coming into my room without knocking. Grabbing my wrist, yanking my hand out from between my thighs and pinning it above my head.
You touching what’s mine now, princess?
My whole body clenches. I press two fingers hard against my clit and circle, quickly and filthily. My other hand grips the sheets like it might hold me together.
I want him to say it.
You gonna come for me with your fingers like a little whore? Or do you want me to do it for you?
Fuck.
My legs are shaking. I’m getting off to the image of my father’s bodyguard grabbing my jaw and telling me what I’ve been begging for it since the first moment like a desperate little brat.
I moan quietly.
I push my fingers deeper, faster, hips grinding against my own hand to meet the rhythm. My free hand grips the sheets tighter.
I need more. I need him.
God.
