5:02 P.M.
Sienna
⸻
I don't even remember dropping the vibrator on the bed. It's there, humming like it's starving, and I am. God, I am.
One knee bent, one heel digging into the sheets, I press the heel of my palm between my legs, eyes fluttering shut as my head sinks back into the pillows. The buzz is too high, too fast, but I don't slow it. I need it brutal. I need it unforgiving. My thighs are already trembling, my clit so sensitive it aches—throbbing, twitching with every breath I take.
There's a throb low in my belly that feels like a punch and a prayer. I've been edging all day, pretending I wasn't going to do this again. Pretending I wasn't going to fall apart over a goddamn piece of silicone. But it's been four days since Jace last touched me, and even then it barely counted. Two minutes, maybe. No fingers. No mouth. Just a hurried fuck like he was scratching an itch.
I want more than that.
I shove the toy between my legs. I'm already wet—slippery, open, the kind of desperate wetness that makes a mess—and when the head of it grazes my clit, I hiss. My back lifts from the bed. My nipples are stiff under the thin tank I slept in, no bra, no panties, nothing but the thought of being wrecked.
It's not working. Not yet anyways. I twist it higher. My hips twitch.
My clit pulses like it's gasping for air. There's a place right at the edge of my slit where pressure makes everything tighter, louder. I grind into it, one hand squeezing the flesh of my thigh, the other fisting the sheet. It's not romantic. It's not soft. I don't want soft. I want to come so hard I forget what loneliness feels like.
I imagine someone watching. Not Jace—he never watches. Not really. I imagine someone darker. Bigger. Standing there with arms folded, silently judging the way I fuck myself, the way my body begs for more even when my mouth won't admit it. I imagine him saying nothing. Just watching me fall apart, slow and stupid.
The toy vibrates harder against my clit, and I almost lose it. My hips jerk up. My cunt clenches around nothing. I whimper, raw and pathetic, head turned to the side where the pillowcase smells like laundry detergent and sweat.
My thighs are slick now. My stomach's tight. I'm so close it's painful.
I spread my legs wider, the toy a blur against my skin. It's not delicate. It's not even rhythm. Just pressure. Movement. Heat. My body's twitching like a live wire and still—still—it's not enough.
"I need more," I breathe to no one.
I think about being pinned down. A hand around my throat. Teeth at my breast. I think about someone laughing—low, mean—when I beg. I think about being used, stretched open, made to come three times before he even lets me touch him.
My pussy clenches so hard it hurts.
And then my orgasm slams into me like a fucking freight train.
I cry out. Loud. My hips snap forward, thighs shaking, the toy almost slips from my hand but I hold it there, locked against my throbbing clit as the aftershocks roll through me in waves. Wet gushes from between my legs, a mess I don't even want to look at. I collapse, chest heaving, limbs shaking and my mind blank. And still, that craving doesn't go away. Not all of it. Not the deeper part, the one no toy can reach.
I want to be seen. Not just watched—I want to be known.
I wipe sweat from my neck and toss the toy aside. It rolls off the bed and hits the floor with a dull thud. My legs are sticky. My cunt's sore. I'm raw in every way that matters.
But there's still the rest of the day to get through.
Still the ache.
Still the fiction I haven't written.
My phone pings against the bedside table, the screen flashing with Jace's name.
Jace:
Hey babe—family dinner tonight at six.
Last-minute thing. Get dressed nice.
My clit aches in protest. My jaw does that thing it always does when I want to say "fuck off" but can't because I'm too soft, too compliant, too eager to please a man who doesn't even know how to touch me properly.
God, I was supposed to come again. I deserved to come again.
But now? Now I'm scrambling to rinse the sex off my skin and figure out what the fuck "nice" even means in Jace's world. Something low-cut? Classy? Or should I just staple a napkin to my chest and call it couture?
I sigh and swing my legs over the side of the bed. My bare feet hit the cool floor and I wince, toes curling against the chill. The vibrator's somewhere under the bed now, forgotten and buzzing out its post-climax misery like a rejected lover. I'll clean it later. Or not. I'm pretty sure that toy knows more about me than Jace does.
I pull off my tank and shuffle to the bathroom, the soreness between my legs a quiet, perfect sting. It's not enough. Nothing ever is lately.
The water in the shower sputters on. I step under the stream and tilt my head back, letting it scald me clean. My nipples tighten. My body hums. I close my eyes and imagine someone else behind me—not touching. Just watching.
Breathing down my neck.
Silent and possessive.
He'd notice everything. The way I arch my back when the water hits between my thighs. The way my fingers twitch like they're dying to reach down and finish what I started. The red lines down my stomach from my own nails. The bruises on my knees from kneeling on the hardwood floor two nights ago just to prove something to myself.
Jace would never notice those things. He doesn't ask questions. Doesn't wonder what I dream about or why I flinch when he grabs my wrist too fast. He doesn't watch me. Not the way I want.
And he sure as hell doesn't get that I don't like last-minute anything—especially not family dinners with people I've never met. What kind of grown-ass man drops "meet the family" in a text with a 45-minute heads-up?
I scrub myself raw and step out, dripping, hair clinging to my collarbone. I towel off and avoid the mirror like it might bite me. I don't want to look at myself right now. Not when I feel this feral. Unfinished. Half a fuck away from screaming.
Instead, I go to my closet.
It's a disaster. Piles of laundry I keep promising to fold. A dress I meant to return. Sweaters I haven't worn since January but can't bring myself to box up. I nudge a heap of t-shirts with my foot and pull out a black slip dress that borders on indecent.
Jace said "nice." He didn't say "respectable."
And anyway, I'm not the respectable kind.
I slide the dress on. No bra. No panties. If I have to sit through an hour of polite smiles and awkward glances, the least I can do is keep one secret tucked between my thighs.
My phone pings again.
Jace:
Leaving in 10.
Perfect.
I run a comb through my damp hair and smear on a little concealer. A bit of mascara. Lip balm. Nothing too obvious. I want to look effortless. Like I woke up like this. Like I don't spend hours trying to figure out how to look like I'm not trying at all.
I grab a jacket. Check the time. 5:41 P.M.
Still twitching. Still a little wet. Still thinking about how close I was to bliss before reality barged in like an uninvited house guest.
I slide my phone into my purse.
When I step outside, the breeze bites. Cold enough to cut through the thin fabric of my dress.
Jace's car pulls up before I even hit the curb. He honks once, impatient. I force a smile before opening the passenger door.
"Hey," I say, sliding in. His cologne is strong today. Sharper than usual.
He glances at me. "You good?"
"I was good until you ruined my orgasm," I mutter, buckling in.
He huffs a laugh. "Seriously?"
"You told me ten minutes ago that I had to be ready in ten minutes." I level him with a look, not angry enough to start a war, but enough to make a point. "You couldn't have texted earlier?"
"It was last minute. My mom planned it like an hour ago. You know how she is."
"And now I have to go make small talk with your dad while my vibrator cries on the bathroom floor?"
"Jesus, Sienna."
"What? It's true." He exhales hard through his nose. "You're acting like I did something wrong."
"Didn't you?" He turns his head toward me, jaw tight. "It's just dinner." I sink into the seat. Let the silence stretch long enough for the tension to latch onto my skin.
He drums his fingers on the steering wheel. "What's really going on?" I blink at him. "You want me to be honest?"
"Always."
"I don't feel important." The words sting a little coming out. Maybe because I've never said them out loud. Not even to myself. "You don't tell me things. You don't ask how my day is. You don't look at me when I walk into a room unless we're about to fuck."
Jace lets out a soft curse under his breath. "You're doing this now?"
"There is no other time. You don't make space for this kind of talk. You never do." He rubs a hand over his face, like he's trying to scrub the conversation off his skin. "I didn't know you felt that way."
"That's the problem."
Another silence. Only this one's heavier. Meaner.
He shifts in his seat, eyes on the road. "I didn't grow up around women who needed words."
"I'm not asking you to be a poet, Jace. I'm asking you to see me."
His grip tightens on the wheel. "I do see you."
I shake my head, swallowing down the heat behind my eyes. "No. You see the version of me that's easy to fuck and even easier to forget. That's who you see."
He jerks the car to the side, pulls into a gas station, and throws it into park. The sudden stop jostles me. "I don't know what the fuck you want from me," he says, voice low, a little broken. "You're here. You're mine. That's supposed to mean something."
"I want it to mean something," I whisper. "But I don't feel like it does. Not all the time."
His head falls back against the seat. He doesn't look at me. Doesn't speak for a full minute.
"I'm not good at this," he finally says. "But I'm trying. I want this. I want you."
My chest pulls tight. I nod, even though it hurts. "Okay."
He pulls away from the curb, slower this time. More careful.
Neither of us speaks for the next five minutes. The car fills with quiet music, and the smell of his cologne, and the low hum of something we don't know how to fix.
But I sit there anyway. Because I love him.