Page 12 of Misadventures with a Time Traveler

Though an hour later, when all three of us are struggling to sing along to “Everybody Wants to Rule the World,” another mutual consensus is reached. It’s totally time for bed.

Beyond beat, I stagger into the castle’s grand chamber. At once, a happy moan escapes me. The decadent four-poster bed is all mine for the next few days. After sleeping in a dozen hotels over the last four months, I’m ready to claim every thread of these luxurious linens as the best perk of my friends’ grand surprise.

But an hour and a half later, I’m not even close to basking in the bedding goodness.

I’m still huffing, growling, and restlessly pacing the room—at the mercy of an adrenaline, wine, and sugar high.

And, at least for the last hour of that buzz, a sadistic surge of lust.

And heat. And need. And deprivation.

Oh, God. Definitely deprivation.

“Damn it,” I growl and stab a toe at the floor. Where’s a stud like Christophe when I need him? And how long has it been since I’ve relaxed enough to think about straddling a hunk like him? A French one, at that. Not that my life gives me time to be a hussy, but my one experience with a French lover was one to remember. Filthy words. Filthier moves. Worked for my multiple orgasms like an Eagle Scout going for a merit badge.

I laugh at that only because sobbing is the alternative. Which is stupid because the last year of my life has been one of its best. In the fashion-influencer arena, I’m no longer in the grandstands. While I’m not center stage yet, I’m headed toward it.

But sacrifices have been made for that.

Like being alone some nights. Hornier than hell. Ready to hump the bedpost for some relief.

But I’m not sorry about any decisions I’ve made to get here.

No. Not sorry.

Just maybe a little of something else.

“Damn it.”

The echo feels justified. Perhaps even necessary. I don’t allow myself to visit these feelings often. But right now, in this place and on this occasion, maybe the emotional expedition is necessary.

I cross to the window as if the decision itself draws me. I grab the window latch and twist, pushing the pane open.

It’s a chilly but clear March night, with a light wind skittering small leaves across the gardens. Moonlight turns everything silver. The effect is heightened as the sprinklers come on, their spray turning into stars on the breeze before landing on the garden’s Grecian statues. The water courses down all the inert, elegant faces. They’re shedding the tears that I can’t.

That I won’t.

Displaying vulnerability won’t change a thing. I’ll still be standing at a window in the middle of the night, identifying with garden statues to distract from the shit that’s really gnawing at me.

That sometimes, during the nights in which it’s too quiet to ignore the thrum of my heart, I have to let it speak to the rest of me.

To tell me it’s alone.

No. Not just alone.

Lonely.

My sugar rush vanishes. My head starts to throb. So does the triangle between my thighs.

What the hell is wrong with me?

“Buzzed,” I mumble. “You’re buzzed, honey. And tired. Ohhh, so tired.” I swing my head around, focusing on the grand production that is my bed. “Yeah. Time for sleep, wenchie Allie.”

With the hope that Christophe will stop by to fulfill a birthday fantasy, I decide to go commando under my long sleep tee. A blissful groan breaks free as I free my chest from my bra. Nothing beats that bliss.

Well…one thing might.

The recognition is only a few seconds old before I wrap one hand around a carved bedpost and let the other drift to the cleft between my thighs. A sigh spills out as my pussy comes alive. Ohhh, shit. This feels so damn good. When was the last time I did even this for myself? Weeks, at least.