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Back then, he’d take pleasure in making me as miserable as possible. But he wasn’t looking for a physical reaction, he just wanted me to know that he hated me. He wanted me to be as unhappy as he was. From the moment we met to the last time we saw each other fifteen years ago, his torment made me cry, but right now, the only wetness coming from me is in my underwear.
Eric and the other men that came before him were sweet, kind, and respectful. They never told me what to do or ordered me around. They never insisted I eat, ignored my requests, or used their physicality to control me.
Oz has done all of those things, and even though I’m not sure I like him, his firm, unyielding touch, his terse orders, his controlling demands, and his unexpected praise have made me feel something that I know I’ll spend the rest of my life craving now that I’ve experienced it.
If he wasn’t holding me firmly in place, I’d look away, but his grip on my hair is keeping my head tilted back, forcing me to look at him. His gaze is raking over my face like he’s searching for something, and his eyes are angry but heated too. Is he feeling like I am? Is this a first for him, or is this how he behaves with every woman he meets? Grinding his dick into me, he scans my features like he’s waiting for me to do or say something, then he releases his hold on me and steps back, leaving me feeling bereft and exposed.
“If I text you, I expect an immediate reply. If I call, I expect you to answer. If I tell you to do something, I expect you to do it, then send me a picture to prove you’ve obeyed me,” he growls, his words rough and low.
My body reacts like I’m one of the omegas from my dirty books, lubing up to take a massive dick. Wetness fills my underwear, and if he doesn’t leave soon, my sweatpants will be soaked through too, because my body is gushing at the commanding tone of his voice.
“Do you understand me, Henrietta?” he demands.
“Etta,” I whisper.
“What?”
“I go by Etta, not Henrietta,” I say, unsure how I’ve even managed to form a sentence when I’m this scared and horny in equal measure.
His brows arch and he tilts his head to the side and assesses me, his eyes leaving a hot path up and down my body as he inspects me. “Go to bed, Little One. I’ll see you on Wednesday.” Then he turns and walks away.
It takes me hours to calm down enough to even try to sleep. Unwilling to unpack, I open my case and pull out a pair of pajamas and my toothbrush. With my supplies held tightly against my chest, I silently tiptoe out of the bedroom, cross the hall, and slip into the bathroom, closing the door behind me.
Pulling on the light, I glance around at the room and find it empty of everything except a shelf full of towels. It’s clean but clearly unused, which, if he has a master bath off his bedroom, makes sense.
Quickly getting ready for bed, I turn off the light before I open the door, then slip back into my bedroom, pulling the door closed behind me. Even though I know he won’t be waiting to jump out and scare me, I still check the closet and beneath the bed before I lift the comforter and climb under the covers.
The sheets crinkle as I settle onto them, and I run my fingers over the cotton, feeling the folds from where they’ve clearly recently been taken out of the packaging. Did he buy new sheets for me? Or did he have them already? I don’t know why it matters, but as I roll to my side and close my eyes. My mind starts to question if he’d go to the effort of getting new bedding for a house guest he clearly didn’t want.
Trying to force myself to sleep, I flip onto my side, hoping to banish all thoughts of Oscar out of my mind, but instead I think about how it felt to have his palm around my neck. Until today, I’d have considered a man holding a woman that way aggressive. But when he did it, he wasn’t squeezing or trying to stifle my breathing. His grip wasn’t harsh, it was just controlled and controlling.
Rolling over to my other side, I try to think about who he was the last time I knew him. As a teenager, he was mean and angry, but tonight his body language felt more like contained animosity, right up until the moment he called me a good girl. When he drawled those words, he wasn’t angry. He was intense—which is equally as scary, but in a very different way.
Back and forth, I flop around, thinking and analyzing everything that’s happened since I stepped off my bus. I should be in my hotel right now, sleeping peacefully in my generic bed, not here, bewildered by the situation I’ve found myself in.
I wonder if Oz is as distracted as I am. Is he overthinking the last few hours, or is he sleeping like a baby, knowing that the kiss will have messed with my mind?
The sun is just starting to climb in the sky when I eventually fall asleep, and by the time I wake up, the house is filled with late morning light. Daytime has chased away the last of the silent shadows, but despite the bright rays of sun peeking around the edges of the blinds, I can feel Oscar’s absence. It’s like the house is bereft without his intense aura.
Even though I know I’m alone and that Oscar isn’t here, I still open my door a crack and peek out before I use the bathroom. Instead of staying in my pj’s like I would have done in my apartment in Vegas, I pull on jeans and a cute knit sweater before I tiptoe tentatively down the stairs, leaving my cell charging on the bedside cabinet.
When we were younger, Oscar always made me feel like an interloper in my own home the moment he walked through the front door. It was like his furious energy claimed ownership of the house as soon as he entered it. Once Carson and Dawson were born, there wasn’t space for Oscar to have his own room, so instead, when he’d visit, Bruce would make me sleep on a pallet on Carson’s floor so Oz could use my room. For weeks after Oscar left, I’d feel like I do right now—like I’m trespassing.
When I step off the stairs, I glance longingly at the front door and wonder if I should just leave. I know I’m a long walk from town, but I’d make it there eventually. I shouldn’t be here, with or without him. I should be in my safe hotel room, congratulating myself on avoiding my childhood terrorizer, not standing in his house, wondering if he’ll get mad if I use his coffee machine.
I’m not sure how long I stay frozen to the spot, staring at the door that’s offering me a means of escaping him and his home. It’s right there, literally ten feet away, but I know I won’t open it because he told me to stay put until he got back on Wednesday.
It’s insane to stay here simply because he told me to, but I still don’t move any closer to the door. I’m an adult. I don’t answer to him. So why am I not leaving? Maybe I’m not leaving because he kissed me and I liked it, or maybe it’s because his dick was big and hard and pressed enticingly into my belly. As much as I know leaving is the sensible thing to do, I can’t or won’t because something is keeping me here in his home.
Trying to keep my steps as light and silent as possible, I pad past the dining table and into the kitchen, making a beeline for the coffee machine that’s sitting in pride of place on the counter. I check over my shoulder four times like I’m waiting for Oscar to jump out and shout at me before I finally lift the pot free and fill it with water. I check three more times before I set the machine to brew, gasping in panic when it loudly starts to hiss and gurgle.
I don’t know why I’m trying to be quiet, there’s no one here for me to disturb. But it feels like I can feel his eyes on me, like he’s watching me, even though he’s not here. Leaving the coffee machine to brew, I place my hand over my stomach when it growls. It feels wrong to help myself to his food, but his home is too far from town for me to go and pick up my own groceries, and I doubt he intended for me to not eat for the next four days after he was so insistent about cooking for me last night.
When I go to open the refrigerator, I find a note stuck to the door with a magnet.
ETTA,
MAKE YOURSELF EGGS AND TOAST FOR BREAKFAST. I EXPECT A PHOTO.
