Page 100 of The Bronze Garza
In his office, I sit on his desk while he’s on phone calls or exercising, making a mess of his things on purpose.
In the basement, I lean over on his worktable when he’s making furniture, baring my cleavage and filling his ears with pointless words.
After a shower, I walk around in my towel.
In the kitchen, I “accidentally” brush up against him as I grab things.
In my room, I leave the door open and blast “baby-making” music from a Bluetooth speaker.
But none of those desperate and pathetic gimmicks have yielded results. He hasn’t been avoiding me, doesn’t seem to mind having me in his space anymore, and even engages in my erratic conversations. He’s just not showing intimate interest in me anymore. In fact, since I gave him the card, he hasn’t touched me.At all. Not even a poke on the arm to nudge me, which he used to do whenever he was annoyed and wanted me to get lost.
Regardless, the stench of lust and repressed desire is all over this house. So thick I could run a chainsaw through it. It’s becoming unbearable.
Unable to focus, I haven’t written a single word in three days. Not when my body seems to be locked in a perpetual state of rabid sexual hunger. There’s this distant din, this hum under my skin, that grows louder and louder each day. Like it’s building to something, and any day now I could combust.
IneedTorin Garza to look at me with lust, touch me, kiss me, claim me and make me his. But I should’ve known it wouldn’t be that easy with him. I should’ve left well enough alone, take what little he was giving. Let him continue to ask permission. Because that was better than nothing at all.
Now, a thick ache between my thighs wakes me, and I groan.
Not again.
The night clock reads 2:05 a.m., almost the same time I was woken last night by the same intense ache. An ache that throbs,heavily, begging me to slip my fingers down inside and sooth it myself.
But I can’t. It won’t work. I needhim.
With another groan, I squeeze my thighs tightly together. It doesn’t help.Arrrgh.
Laced with frustration, I kick the sheets off and roll out of bed. The only thing that’s worked for me the past two nights was giving myself a brain-freeze with an ice-cold glass of water.
As I pad down the hall, I stop and glare in the direction of Torin’s room. I’m tempted to go try his door, but don’t. It’ll be pointless. Several nights ago, he was clinging to me so I wouldn’t leave his bed. Now he’s locking me out of the damn room.Gah, I hate him so freaking much.
The low sound of the television in the living room hits my ears as I descend the stairs. He hadn’t been down here the past two nights I woke up aroused and in heat, so seeing him now, watching TV in his favorite recliner, catches me off guard.
He doesn’t look in my direction as I trek across the back of the living room and toward the kitchen, but I know he’s aware of my presence.
In the kitchen, I grab a glass and press it under the ice-dispenser, then hit the button for water. Once the glass is full, I stick my finger in and swirl it all around. It’ll need to be North-Pole chilled to quell the fire inside me, so into the freezer it goes. Three minutes inside usually does the trick.
As I wait, leaned against the island, I glance over at Torin in the living room. He’s so relaxed, completely unperturbed while I’m a roiling, flaming mess. Always one breath away from arousal.
I blame him for the maddening, unquenched hunger within me right now. For holding my hand. For kissing me. For making me think there would be more.
And I blame myself for giving him that stupid permission card. It might as well have been my V-card.
“Don’t submit. Don’t show them your hand. Don’t leave the ball in their court, ever. You hold on to what you have. Keep your leverage.”
The words my mother gave me before I went off to college crash into me. It was her version of the birds and the bees talk. Where Dad is dominant, dogged, and defiant, Mom is somewhat submissive. But she told me she wished she wasn’t, hence the advice.
I used to believe I’m more like Dad in that regard. Defiant, stubborn, unmalleable.
Until Torin.
With him, I have no desire to keep the ball in my court, to hold on to what I have, or keep my leverage. With him, I just want to surrender. Bare my neck to him like an animal.
Alas, I’m starting to regret not following Mom’s advice.
Torture.
It’s pure, unadulterated torture.
