I'm bone-tired from the weight of the day.
I think to myself of—
Lena's wild gossip about Brad's hot-and-cold proposal hints and their scandalous rooftop patio escapade after that LELO vibrator stunt, the surreal encounter with the mysterious biker, the looming campaign, Sarah's sneaky scheming, and Mark's advances—settling over me like a heavy quilt.
It's time for bed.
I shuffle to the bathroom, my socked feet dragging across the cool hardwood floor, the faint hum of the city outside muffled by my apartment's thick walls. I brush my teeth with slow, mechanical strokes, the minty foam sharp on my tongue, staring at my reflection in the dim bathroom mirror.
My eyes look tired.
My fair skin is flushed from the whirlwind of thoughts. I splash cold water on my face, then wipe off my makeup with a soft cloth, my skin feeling bare and raw. I pull my hair into a loose braid, my fingers working through the strands with practiced ease, the routine a small anchor that calms the jittery edges of my nerves.
Before leaving the bathroom, I notice my nipples are hard through the silk of my nightshirt from my thoughts. My body reacts, and my mind wanders as I walk back to my bedroom and dim the lights to read myself to sleep.
The biker's there, in my thoughts and my imagination changes the book, he is sprawled across a velvet-draped bed like Peter in the book, his leather jacket tossed aside, bare chest taut and glistening, hazel eyes glinting with that dangerous spark.
I crawl under the cool, crisp sheets, the fabric sliding against my skin as I adjust my soft pillows, fluffing them into a perfect nest around me. My glasses are slightly fogged from the bathroom's warmth, my slender frame sinking into the mattress, my smooth legs stretching out. I reach for the bedside lamp, turning it down more to a gentle amber glow that bathes the room in a cozy, intimate haze, the quiet hum of my ceiling fan breaking the stillness.
His low, teasing "I will see you again" echoes like Peter's "sun and stars," his breath hot against my neck as he pulls me close. I settle in, the book's worn cover smooth under my fingertips. Reading where my bookmark left off, eager to lose myself in the Winter Palace's opulence and someone else's life where I can safely imagine myself making love without any concern for reality.
A sharp creak makes my heart lurch, my pulse racing as I clutch the book, eyes darting to the shadows. I spot the door, eased shut by the fan's gust, and let out a shaky laugh, muttering, "Get a grip, Elise," my shoulders sagging, my chest rising under my silk nightshirt.
The adrenaline spike only serves to make me a little edgier, and I feel my panties slightly wet.
I'm Catherine, my hair spilling over pillows, his strong hands tracing my curves, his killer smile hovering in the candlelight.
I sink back into the pillows, opening the book to the banquet scene, where Peter's towering presence commands the Winter Palace, his velvet coat gleaming under candlelight:
Peter dominates the ballroom, his towering frame clad in a velvet coat embroidered with gold. The empire is stable, held together by his iron fist and new policies. He spots General Alexei Menshikov, his trusted advisor, and strides over, gripping his shoulder. "Alexei," Peter says, his voice low, "ze shipyards vill make Russia a giant, da? Schools vill forge minds to match our swords. I vant you to make it so. Go mingle."
His lips brush my neck, rough from the road, his large hands firm yet teasing, guiding me with that tsar-like control.
A tingle sparks low in my core, warm and insistent, as I unbutton my nightshirt slowly, savoring the silk's smooth glide against my skin, catching on my hardened nipples as it falls open. My body is bare now, my small, pert breasts exposed to the cool air, my pink nipples achingly hard, my lean frame stretched out under the lamplight's glow, fair skin flushing pink. The faint scent of chamomile from my earlier tea lingers, mixing with the clean smell of my sheets.
I wish I wasn't alone right now.
I feel needy with desire.
The biker's mouth moves lower, his tongue flicking against my skin, his hazel eyes locked on mine, promising more.
My hand drifts to my breasts, fingers grazing the sensitive skin, a soft moan escaping as I squeeze gently, the sensation sending a shiver through me.
My core clenches, a slick warmth building, sweat beading along my collarbone, my body warming despite the room's chill.
I slide my silk night shorts down my thighs, relishing the sensual drag of the fabric against my smooth legs, leaving me completely bare, my skin tingling in the cold air, my curves softly illuminated by the lamp's amber glow.
His hands grip my hips, his sweat-slicked skin pressed against mine in the Winter Palace's candlelit chamber.
My fingers trail lower, teasing along my stomach, the skin sensitive under my touch, my moans quiet but growing as the musky scent of my arousal mingles with the faint lavender from a burned-out candle. My hips shift, seeking more, my lean thighs tensing under the sheets, the fan's hum blending with my quickening breaths in the still room.
My imagination is barely a replacement for what my body really wants.
Briefly, I imagine, my ex Cory and how he felt inside me.
Then back to the biker. His lips are on my breasts now, hot and deliberate, his tongue circling as I arch into him, his growl vibrating against me.
My fingers press harder, circling my folds, the slickness making them glide effortlessly, a sharp jolt of pleasure pulling a louder moan from my throat. Sweat slicks my skin, my fair complexion flushed deeper, my small breasts heaving with quickening breaths, my inner walls pulsing with need, the heat inside me building.
He's pinning me down, his broad shoulders caging me in, his breath hot as he murmurs "sun and stars" in my ear. I let him lead.
I pause, teasing myself, letting my fingers drift to my inner thighs, the skin soft and sensitive, drawing out the anticipation as my body trembles, sweat beading along my hairline. My moans are soft but desperate, filling the quiet room, the scent of my desire heady, my bare frame quivering under the lamplight's glow.
His fingers replace mine, skilled and unrelenting, his hazel eyes burning with intent as he watches me unravel.
I reach into the nightstand drawer, my fingers brushing past a notebook and a pen before closing around the smooth, cool shape of my vibrator. My cheeks flush, anticipation mixing with a flicker of self-consciousness, as I pull it out, its sleek design catching the lamplight. The vibrator hums softly as I switch it on, trailing it along my inner thigh, the vibration sending a shiver through me, my core pulsing with wetness, my fair skin glistening with sweat.
His mouth is lower now, teasing my core, his tongue driving me wild as I imagine myself as Catherine, surrendered to his powerful intensity.
I press the vibrator closer, circling my folds, the sensation sharp and electric, drawing a low, desperate moan. My hips buck, my lean frame arching off the bed, the sheets tangling around my legs, the heat inside me molten, my inner walls clenching, the slickness amplifying every touch, the musky scent of my arousal thick in the air.
I need more.
I insert the vibrator on a pulsing mode that comes in waves. Then reach into my bedside drawer for my other toy made to stimulate just my clit. Pulling it out quickly and turning it on low, to start, trying not to rush things and ruin it by overstimulating myself too soon.
He's moving with me, his muscular frame looming, his sweat-slicked skin against mine, his hard body deep inside me lightly pulsing like my vibrator.
I adjust the vibrator, finding a rhythm that makes my body tremble, my small breasts heaving, my nipples hard in the cold. I curl my toes in an attempt to hold the waves of pleasure in circulation. My fingers join the vibrator, dropping the book, slippery with wetness, amplifying the pleasure as my moans grow raw, echoing in the room, the fan's hum fading into the background, my core tight and pulsing.
His hands grip my thighs, his hazel eyes flashing as he pushes me to the edge, his smile wicked and knowing.
I tease myself further, pulling the vibrator back, letting my fingers explore, tracing slow circles to draw out the anticipation. Moving my second toy between my folds directly above my clit but not on it, feeling myself build up. My body is slick with sweat, my fair skin glowing, my lean frame quivering, the scent of my arousal overpowering, mingling with faint lavender. I bring the vibrator back, pressing it firmly, the sensation sending a jolt that makes my hips lift, my moans louder, my core wet and tight.
He's relentless now in my thoughts, his touch driving me wild, his voice a growl as I surrender completely. He's both throbbing inside me like an orgasm but without the feeling of warm wetness and sparks that come with good sex. Our bodies moving against each other, nipples brushing skin.
Finally, I let go, the vibrator hitting just the right spot, the pleasure crashing through me like a storm. Nipples brushing blankets, I am just the right amount of warm. My body arches, a sharp cry escaping as waves of ecstasy ripple through my core, my inner walls spasming with release. Sweat coats my skin, my chest heaving, the air thick with the musky scent of my climax and lingering lavender. I collapse into the pillows, my body trembling, sated but warm with the afterglow, my fair skin flushed, my lean frame limp against the tangled sheets, the vibrator humming softly as I switch it off.
I lie there, catching my breath, the biker's imaginary intensity lingering like a fever dream.
I force myself up, my legs shaky as I shuffle to the bathroom. I rinse the vibrator under warm water, the soap's clean scent cutting through the musky air, my hands trembling from the intensity. My reflection shows flushed cheeks, my braid mussed, my eyes glassy with exhaustion and satisfaction. I use the toilet, then wash my hands. As I turn off the faucet and head to bed, I pass out, the weight of the day pulling me under.