Page 43 of Irrevocably

So, what I should be doing is sitting down at my desk and doing my English assignment, then catching up on my study for my exams.

Yet I’m not working on anything. I can’t. Not when Lucien’s in my head taking up all the precious space, making my fury rage at what he made me promise then how casually he dismissed me. At how he managed to get into my house and put cameras everywhere without me knowing a thing about it.

I had coffee with Rowan today and she asked what was up, because I seemed quiet and “off”. I wish I could have told her. I wish I could have talked to her the way she talks to me about her crush. Analysing their every text and social media posts, how quickly he responded and did he leave you on read, etc., etc.

It’s not like that with Lucien, though, because this isn’t a normal crush. So, how do I tell her that I’ve been stalked by a beautiful psycho who put cameras all through my house, slit a man’s throat, then took my virginity in my childhood bed?

She’d be horrified. She’d order me to go straight to the police. And why the hell didn’t I say something before now?

I can’t even articulate to myself why I haven’t. Perhaps it’s because the time for telling people has passed. I’ve made myself complicit now in whatever it is that he’s doing. I’m an accessory, and Dad’s not going to like that one bit.

But no, it’s more than that. Lucien’s got under my skin. He’s darkness and violence, and I’m fascinated by that. By his arrogance and his confidence. He’s all ice, his emotions – if he has any – buried deep, while mine are there all the time. I want some of that ice. I want some of that confidence. I want to know what it’s like to be afraid of nothing and no one.

He’s given me another two days to talk to Dad and I will, but I’m not going to sit here and pretend that last night didn’t happen, or that it was “just a fuck”. I won’t. He made me promise not to cut myself again, to come to him if I needed pain, and then he changed his mind. It was like giving me the most perfect present then taking it away before I had a chance to unwrap it.

Asshole.

He watched me for God knows how long, toying with me, learning me, and he was the one with all the power. Yet that night with him showed me that I have power, too, which was why I left his last camera in my bedroom.

I want to remind him of what he made me promise him. I want to mess with him the way he messed with me. So, tonight I’m going to use his knife, use his camera, give myself a release. Show him that he can’t tell me what to do, can’t dismiss me so easily, not without consequences. He told me not to play games with him. Well, now it’s my turn to show him what happens if he plays games with me.

I’m sitting on my bed, his knife in my hands, wearing my summer sleep set, even though it’s not really the weather for it. The fabric is thin enough that it may as well be see-through for all it covers, so I hope he’s getting a good look.

I glance up at his camera. He’s watching, I can feel it.

“You made me promise not to cut myself,” I say aloud. “You said I was to come to you if I need pain.” I hold the knife up, brandishing it. “You’re not here, so this will have to do. Of course, I’d much rather you used it on me yourself, but like you said, a fuck is just a fuck, right?”

My skin tightens at the thought of him watching, a wave of warmth pulsing through my body. I lean forward and place my mother’s photo face down again, then put the edge of the blade against my thigh. It’s very, very sharp. So sharp that when I draw it across my pale flesh, there’s almost no pain at all. But then it hits me and I close my eyes, remembering him pinching my nipple as he drove inside me, and heat rushes through my body.

I take another shaky breath and cut the other thigh, more blood welling, pain a bright thread winding through my body. I lie back on the bed. “I don’t need you, anyway, Lucien,” I say softly, running my hand down my front and cupping one breast through the fabric of my camisole. “I know how to make myself feel good.” I pinch my own nipple through the cotton of my camisole, the way he did last night, feeling it harden into a sharp point as the sensation hits me, a bolt of hot electricity. I rub my thumb over it, back and forth, watching the camera, feeling the pleasure build hotter, combining with the sweet pain that pushes me higher.

“See?” My voice gets huskier as I pinch myself again. “You didn’t show me anything I didn’t already know.” I slide my hand from my breast, over my stomach, and down to the waistband of my sleep shorts and under to where I’m wet and throbbing. I want to use the knife again, cut myself again as I stroke my clit, but I don’t have enough hands. So I pinch my nipple hard, replicating what he did the night before as I touch my wet flesh, white lightning lights up all my nerve endings. This is so intense. More intense than I thought it would be, and way more intense than it usually is when I touch myself.

Knowing he’s watching me makes my mouth go dry. Suddenly, all I want is to strip my shorts off, spread my legs wide, and touch myself so he can see everything. But that’s not the purpose of what I’m doing. I’m supposed to be playing with him, screwing with him the way he screwed with me.

So, I keep my shorts on as I slide one finger, then another into my slick pussy, and I imagine my hand is his. I imagine that night when he touched me just like this, his long, tattooed fingers deep inside me, giving me pleasure.

I moan and lift my hips, my hand working faster. He’ll be able to see it move, but he’ll have to imagine everything else. God, it feels good. I bite my lower lip hard as the pressure builds, the spark of pain it gives me amplifying the flood of pleasure. I keep going, my head full of him above me, looking down at me as he pushed inside me, and I come hard at the memory, gasping and arching on the bed as lights explode behind my eyes.

Afterwards, I lie there, boneless and sated for a few moments, then I open my eyes and look at the camera. “Turns out, all I needed was your knife,” I murmur. “I didn’t need you at all.”

It feels a bit anti-climactic to simply roll over and go to sleep, so I get up and turn the camera angle so it’s pointed at my window instead, because right now, that’s all I’m going to let him see.

He got a show, but now that show is definitely over.

I’m just getting back into bed when my phone on my nightstand lights up. I glance at the screen. It’s a message from an unknown number. All it says is:

You’re playing with fire, Tinkerbell.

A hot thrill arrows down my spine. Of course it’s Lucien.

How he got my number, I have no idea, but some part of me isn’t surprised that he has it. He had cameras in my house, so why wouldn’t he know my cell, too?

I lean back against the pillows as satisfaction stretches out inside me. So, I was right, he was watching me. And he saw me cut myself, touch myself, make myself come. And that did have some effect on him. It must have if he’s texting me immediately.

Why?

It’s just a fuck, Lucien.