Page 2 of His Last Will

I clench my thighs together to try soothing some of the ache beginning to form between my legs. I want him. Have wanted him for as long as I can remember.

Before I can even comprehend what I’m doing, my hand is moving to try to relieve some of the pressure building inside me. Rubbing the sensitive place that is screaming for attention and relief.

Hopefully, I charged my vibrator so I can put it to good use tonight. There is nothing worse than the buzz dying before you finish. And screw the manual way all the way to hell.

Speaking of vibrations, my phone vibrates in my pocket, a piercing sound given the silence around me. Shit. A blush blooms on my cheeks as I realize I’m literally touching myself in the garden, thinking of my best friend.

I tap the screen, allowing the light to fill the surrounding space.

Brodie:

I see you.

My hands shake as I glance up at the window again.

Brodie is standing on the other side of the glass, gazing down at me. He arches an eyebrow when he sees me look up and crooks a finger in a silent demand.

Come.

Nerves swirl in my gut, making it hard to breathe.

Me:

Why.

Brodie:

Because I fucking said so.

When I don’t respond, he types something else out and hits send.

Brodie:

Don’t you want to see what I got you for Valentine’s Day?

Me:

You always said it was a useless holiday.

Brodie:

Fine, I’ll just give your gift to somebody else then.

Rolling my eyes, I stalk back inside.

I tiptoe up the dark, winding staircase, running my fingertips along the wall of the hallway as I feel my way to the familiar destination. A room I spent more time in than my own. I always wanted to be around him, near him, as close as I could get. Still the case to this day.

His door swings open without waiting for my knock, and his hand goes straight to my neck, yanking me into the room as he presses me up against his hard body. Brodie doesn’t say a word, just watches like he can see through me.

I blush furiously as I wait him out. The silence grows thick around us.

Brodie’s bedroom is the size of a small apartment. Dark wood furnishings and black décor fill the space. Subtle undertones of deep red in the throw pillows and blankets add a touch of color. He once told me he would decorate his room with the blood of his enemies if he could, but it was too much of a biohazard, so he settled for red accents.

Lovely.

Shelves span across the walls, filled with books he never read and trophies from his most gruesome wins on the ice. Like a sick shrine to those he fucked up the most, still reveling in the despair he has caused even years later. There were expectations for a hockey captain from the Araneae bloodline, or so he said after a particularly bloody fight.

A large leather chair sits next to the four-poster bed, which takes up almost half the room. Silk sheets adorn it, only the best for his heir-ness.