Not just ajar like last time. Open. Wide. Welcoming, saying,Yes, trespass. Make it weird.
I stand in the doorway for a long moment.
The bed’s made. Dark grey sheets pulled tight, military-precise. Pillows arranged perfectly. The whole room smells like him.
Last time I was here in a panic. Grabbing his jacket, shoving the tie in my pocket, fleeing like a raccoon caught in a garage.
This time is different.
This time I walk in slowly. Taking my time. Like this is our house. Our bed. Our life I broke into like a thief with a key.
I run my hand along the footboard. Smooth wood. Expensive. Still no handcuffs or silky restraints.
I look at the pillows. Imagine him sleeping here. Face relaxed. That controlled expression finally gone.
And then, because I have absolutely no self-control, and he basically told me to, I lie down on his bed.
Head on his pillow. Face turned into the fabric.
I pull the bottle from my pocket. Spray my neck, my wrists. Take off my shirt and spray my belly. The mist is cool on my skin.
I inhale, trying to memorize him through my lungs. Let his scent crawl into the cracks and fill the places nothing else can reach.
… while you touch yourself.
Sir, yes sir.
I trail a finger over my bra.
My other hand slides lower. One flick and the button of my jeans pops. Another and I’m sliding under the denim, under the thin cotton of my panties.
I press down, soft and slow, and then again harder. Find the rhythm he’d probably use.
“Fuck,” I whisper, and my voice is ragged already.
My other hand skims up. Over my ribs. Palms the lace of my bra. Pretends it’s his mouth. His teeth. His hands that never seem to shake.
I stare at the ceiling. Then at the pillow.
Then I turn my head and look for it.
There.
The camera.
Tiny. Dark. Quiet.
But my brain explodes withwhat ifs.
What if he’s watching?
What if Enzo’s watching?
I moan anyway.
Whisper his name into the pillow, like it’ll reach him. Like it’ll stain the cotton.
“Dario.”
