by Layla Frost
Twisting the control all the way to blue, the freezing water shocked my body. My balls were about to turn into snowballs, but still, my dick stayed hard.
After adjusting the temperature once more, I turned away from the spray and wrapped a fist around myself. Closing my eyes, an image of Eden on her knees formed, her full lips opening eagerly. Up and down I stroked, but in my mind, it was her mouth working me—taking me down her throat like my dick was more important than breathing.
The fantasy shifted, like rapid snapshots forming a flip book. The way she moved. Her stripping—not for everyone, but earlier that night. Just for me. The way her body felt under mine, all soft skin and softer curves. Her attitude when she glared at me, cursing me in her head. Or if I really pissed her off, out loud. And her smile.
My palm slapped the tile, holding me up as the visual of her smiling at me took root. Eden spread on my bed, offering me everything. Open and willing and ready.
Trusting.
With that damn smile.
Resting my forehead against my hand on the wall, my fist moved faster.
A small gasp sounded from the door, and my muscles bunched, but I didn’t stop. I couldn’t have if I wanted to, and I sure as hell didn’t. Not wanting her to know I’d heard her, I shifted just enough to glance at Eden in the doorway.
Her focus on my dick was so absolute, she didn’t notice my own stare.
For months, her image—either a memory or a carefully cultivated fantasy—had caused me to shoot my load more times than I could count.
None of it compared to having her eyes on me. That alone was enough to make precome drip steadily. But seeing the reaction I had on her drove me out of my damn mind, making me desperate to come. Yet I fought against it, not ready for it to be over.
We were the kinky version of Newton’s third law, our fucked-up connection pushing and pulling with each action and reaction.
I stroked quicker. Her chest heaved.
I got rougher. Her lips parted.
I got closer to the paradise my depraved angel led me to. And equal and opposite, she was left empty and wanting. Her sexy as fuck legs shifted, crossing and squeezing as she tried to ease the ache.
An ache I built.
And an ache I’d soothe over and over as soon as she broke.
My balls drew up and the pressure built until I exploded, the thick streams hitting the shower wall.
“It’s not polite to stare, Eden,” I muttered roughly as I turned to face her.
Jolting at my words, her gaze darted from my still hard cock. “I… uh… sorry,” she blurted before turning and literally running back into the room.
After rinsing off, I killed the water and stepped out, my mind on Eden and what kind of reaction she’d have. My money was on her feigning sleep. I dried off but didn’t bother to pull my boxers back on before heading to my room.
And freezing in the doorway.
Eden wasn’t feigning sleep. She wasn’t redressed and demanding to leave—another front runner in my list of possibilities.
Like she was conjured by the desperation of my fantasies, Eden was stretched on the bed, propped up on her elbows. She was still in her bra and panties, and her legs were closed, but she was almost my fantasy come to life.
Almost.
Because she may have been ready and willing, but she wasn’t open. And she wasn’t trusting. Her eyes were hooded and unfocused, but still guarded as she kept them locked on mine.
Flipping the light off, I climbed into bed and reached for her. My spent cock jumped when she did, twitching at the small gasp my touch elicited. Situating us on our sides, my front curved around her back, I kissed the top of her head. “You’re supposed to be asleep, Eden.”
“You were gone.”
I closed my eyes as her words scored through me, a beautiful pain. “Never,” I promised roughly.
Her body tightened at the one word before loosening. “Does this mean you’ll make me come now?”
“No.”
“Damn,” she whispered before yawning.
Curling my bottom arm up, I cupped her tit over her bra. My other arm stretched up, my hand resting on the base of her throat. Her pulse accelerated under my palm, thumping like wild. I didn’t move and neither did she. It took less than a minute for the beat to slow and her breathing to steady.
She fell asleep.
She fell asleep with my damn hand on her throat.
That hint of trust and vulnerability was enough to dig her deeper under my skin. She was in my veins—my drug of choice. My addiction.
The high I’d spend my life chasing but never getting enough of.
My depraved angel, promising me paradise before leading me to hell.
Mine.
*******
Eden
DC: Any luck?
I glared at my phone in disbelief, and not just because I had no clue when Damien had added himself to my phone contacts.
After hardly any sleep, my alarm had gone annoyingly wild. When I’d shifted to silence the monster, I’d realized I was still tucked in the arms of a bigger one. How I’d fallen asleep with Damien’s hand on my neck was a mystery I had no intention of trying to solve.
What I couldn’t hide from, however, was how well I’d slept.
Damien had told me to stay in his bed all day, but when he’d made it clear it wasn’t so he could make me come, I’d declined, saying I needed to get ready for class.
‘Get ready for class’ was apparently new code for ‘masturbate until I require IV rehydration and a Costco-sized supply of replacement batteries’.
I’d tried.
And tried.
And tried.
I’d assumed it would take only a quick gust of wind to set me off, but that hadn’t been the case. My vibrator was drained, each sputtering buzz the valiant yet ineffective effort of my trusty plastic lover. My wrist was so sore, I was beginning to worry I’d given myself a nasty case of carpal tunnel syndrome. And my back ached, both from the uncomfortable contorting and the tension that squeezed my bones.
And it was all Damien’s fault.
I’d tried my list of go-to imaginary lovers, each obsessed with bringing me their own brand of hotness.
Idris’ passionate love making.
Charlie-slash-Jax’s rough fucks on the back of his bike.
Jason’s athletic marathon sex, sinister and so dirty.
Raunchy, secret, up against a brick wall fucking with Negan.
Michael B.’s sexy as hell smile.
And Jamie’s biteable ass flexing.
But one by one, each dream man had shifted to become a certain asshole professor.
Desperate and running out of time, I’d finally given into the fantasy of Damien, assuming that would do the trick. The detonating cord had been lit, and I’d been about to explode when his threat had echoed through my head.
‘You do that, my depraved angel, and you will be punished.’
I’d thought I’d been cool with that. Nothing could be worse than the pain of being that aroused. Plus, he’d never know.
Yet each time I’d gotten close, his voice would float through my head, reminding me that he’d said no.
All my efforts to get past that mental hurdle had only left me needier than when I’d begun. Wet and swollen and borderline delirious, I’d contemplated texting Damien to beg him to tell me it was okay, willing to offer up my kidney, my right arm, or whatever other body part he might want in exchange.
I’d told myself that was the stupidest, most asinine thing ever. Damien wasn’t in charge of me. He didn’t call the shots. My body was my own.
I was woman, hear me fucking roar.
Except, it wasn’t him being the cock-block… err, the clam jam. My own brain had thrown a clit-fit because part of me wanted to follow his rules. Not because of his threats and consequences, I just… did. A lot. Enough that my warring brain had refused to let me come, locking my body in a perpetual state of oh-my-fucking-God-I�
�m-going-to-cry-if-I-don’t-orgasm-right-now.
I couldn’t come, thanks to Damien’s voodoo mind control that he’d somehow brainwashed me with. But I needed to come, thanks to Damien’s relentless teasing and buildup.
Stuck in a stand-off with myself, I’d ended up sprawled out and on the edge.
The edge of orgasm.
Of sanity.
And of my tiny twin bed.
I’d picked up my phone to see if I was also on the edge of missing class, only to see the text from Damien.
He hadn’t specified, but still, I knew he was asking if I’d had any luck coming. I had no clue how I knew, just like I had no clue how he’d known I’d try. But he had, because of fucking course he had.
God, he was infuriating. And bossy. And an asshole with mood swings worse than anyone I’d met.
Women got a lot of shit for their moods, especially during that time of the month, but it was nothing compared to the mercurial moods of men. And Damien was the worst of them all.
Unfortunately, he was also brilliant, gorgeous, intellectually stimulating, dangerous, and surprisingly tender.
But what was the point in heading down that road with him? Between our dysfunction, his career, and my—albeit poorly thought out and tentative—plans to move states away, we were doomed from the start. Even if we just had a casual, physical fling, too much was at stake.
Even as I told myself all the negatives, all the reasons I needed to steer clear, I couldn’t help but think about what he made me feel. My libido ran wild when I was with him, definitely. But more than that, I came alive and just felt.
Maybe that was a huge, billboard-sized sign that I needed to haul ass out of town. Emotions were messy, and my life was already a big knot of disaster.
Looking at his message again, I was tempted to ignore it, but I couldn’t resist poking.
Me: Yes. Lots of luck. Multiple times of luck.
My phone dinged almost instantly.
DC: Liar.
Me: Am not. It was amazing. Might need to skip classes to recover.
DC: Now I know you’re a liar.
I dropped my cell to my chest and gave a giddy giggle, my exhaustion and frustration giving me a case of the dumbs. Snatching it back up when it dinged, I nearly bobbled it when I read the waiting message.
DC: But say the word, and we can meet in my office. You can spread on my desk and show me exactly how you ‘luck’.
A tremor ran through me, tightening my nipples and sending a flood of arousal to my already drenched pussy.
My eyes drifted to the vibrator on my bedside table, and I wondered how effective it would be without the batteries.
Realizing what I was thinking, I tore my eyes away.
Thinking about Damien while I get off is one thing. Sexting is something totally different. Way over the line. Unacceptable and distasteful. So far beyond proper, it’s out of the question…
Mostly because I need the vibration.
‘Cause if I had batteries, all bets would be off.
Too horny to be disgusted at myself, I focused on my phone.
Me: Say the word? Is the word ‘delusional’? Because you’re delusional if you think that’ll ever happen.
DC: It makes me hard when you fight it. It’ll be that much sweeter when you give in.
Maybe I don’t need vibrations…
Me: Yup. Delusional.
I caught sight of the time and realized I’d have to haul ass if I didn’t want to be late.
Me: Wait, aren’t you teaching a class right now?
DC: Teaching is probably an overstatement. I’m supervising a bunch of hungover idiots who’d rather be in bed while I sit behind my desk because I’m so hard thinking about how I’d rather be back in bed with you.
I shivered and clenched at nothing as something that felt strong enough to qualify as a mini-orgasm teased through me.
DC: There’s a copy of my key in your student mailbox. Meet me at my place after classes.
I was about to give him my tried and true excuse of having to work before I remembered that wasn’t true. Usually, the idea of a night off would fill me with anticipation as I imagined all the positions I could try.
On the couch.
The tub.
Sitting in bed.
Stretched out in it.
Out at the park, if I was feeling adventurous.
I’d be able to read anywhere.
Then, at an early hour, I could sleep in even more positions.
But all the tension that’d left my body came back tenfold as I thought about why I had the night off. The creeper with his mini creeper out. The increasing number of no-tippers, shitty attitudes, and unmotivated bouncers.
I had no doubt Ted and Charlie would get it under control, but it wouldn’t be within a day. If it were only one or two things, that’d be different, and I might’ve been able to convince myself to stick around. But just the thought of returning to work filled me with dread.
Maybe I’ll quit. Not because he told me to or anything.
I snorted, rolling my eyes at myself.
Don’t pretend this decision has nothing to do with Damien’s demands and my stupid desire to make him happy.
“I was gonna quit anyway,” I muttered, arguing with myself as the stressed and sleep-deprived often did. “It’d be a hellish commute from South Carolina to Sinners.”
That was the problem with acknowledging hidden truths. I was forced to face the reality.
And then lie my ass off.
Me: Can’t. Work.
I’d figured it was a good excuse that’d get him off my back and give me the night to figure my tangled knot of a life out.
Yeah, and that’s such a small feat a night is all it’ll take? Sounds way better than endless orgasms and sleeping in Damien’s arms.
DC: That’s three times in this very brief text exchange you’ve outright lied to me. More, if we count when you’re lying to yourself.
How’d he know I have the night off? He wasn’t there.
DC: Then again, if we count those as lies, pretty much every word out of your fuckable mouth would be a lie. Since I know you have the night off, I’ll say it again. Key is in your mailbox. My house. And if you lie to me again, it’ll be a repeat of last night.
DC: Actually, please lie again. You saw what punishing you does to me.
The visual of him jacking off, his come hitting the wall, was enough to make a bigger tremor sizzle through me. My insides heated and my clit pulsed, begging to be touched as though it’d been neglected for years.
You had your chance, clit.
Me: I can’t come over, I have plans.
His response was instantaneous.
DC: With who?
Me: When did you add your number to my phone?
DC: Last night. With who?
Me: There’s a password on my phone.
DC: Touch ID. And you sleep like the dead. With who?
Me: DC makes me think of the comic universe.
DC: Maybe I should’ve put my contact as Superman.
I snorted.
Me: Bruce Wayne! He’s a bossy asshole, right? Oh, no, I know. The Joker. You and he have a lot of the same stalker, batshit insane personality traits.
DC: Good point. Does that make you my Harley Quinn?
It wasn’t the first time he’d called me his, but seeing the possessive claim in black and white made it harder to ignore.
Can’t keep rereading it and smiling like a moron if I delete it.
I pressed the text and then hovered my finger over the little trash can icon before hitting cancel.
Weak.
Me: No, I’m more Commissioner Gordon.
DC: Usually I like to be the one wielding the handcuffs, but we can switch things up.
Me: You’re delusional.
DC: Who’re your plans with?
My eyes skimmed from my vibrator to the stack of romance books I’d gotten from the library despite knowing I’d have no ti
me to read any of them. It was immature as hell, but I couldn’t resist messing with him.
Me: Someone who doesn’t try to boss me around all the damn time.
I got up and picked out my clothes for the day, grinning the whole time. My phone dinged as I was about to head to the shower.
DC: So someone who won’t get you off.
DC: Just do what I say for once. Get the damn key and meet me at my place.
My eyes narrowed as I reread his message, getting more pissed each time. All the cockiness. The assholeness. The bossiness.
The correctness.
Me: Go ‘luck’ yourself.
Chapter Twenty
* * *
Enthusiastic Researcher
Eden
I’d told myself I wouldn’t waste time stopping at my mailbox because I had no interest in getting the key and going to his place.
And I’d kept telling myself that as my traitor body stepped foot on campus and hustled straight to my mailbox.
I stood in front of it, giving it a hefty dose of side-eye as I tried to decide whether to open it.
On one hand, I had no self-control. I’d had to bury my phone at the bottom of my bag so I wouldn’t look at the waiting messages from Damien. I was happy with my last words. If I looked, I’d likely respond with something a lot less ‘mic-drop’ and a lot more ‘I know you are, but what am I?’
If I gave in and grabbed the key, I’d probably use it. And not just because I craved the orgasm Damien dangled like a carrot, just out of reach. Though, according to my body, that alone would be worth the sacrifice of whatever sense of dignity and morality I was desperately clinging to.
No, I’d give in because I wanted to. Part of me, at least.
On the other hand, letting the key sit there was allowing him to control me. I would avoid my mailbox or think of him each time I opened it.
“Or I could give it back,” I murmured to myself.
“What?”
Startled, I looked over to see another student emptying about three months’ worth of stuff from his box. He was giving me the same wary side-eye I was giving my mailbox, which made sense because what kind of sane person glared at an inanimate object and talked to herself?