Chapter 29: Solo Revenge
The slam of the guest room door was a gunshot in the silence of the penthouse. Katy stood frozen in the kitchen, her hand still tingling from the heat and weight of him. The rejection should have stung, should have sent her reeling with shame. Instead, a different, hotter emotion coiled in her gut: pure, unadulterated frustration.
She looked down at her own hand, the one that had just been wrapped around his cock. It felt empty. Useless. A low growl of annoyance escaped her lips. He was being an idiot. A noble, terrified idiot, but an idiot nonetheless. They had transcended cousins, transcended any simple label. He was the only person on earth who knew what it felt like to have her orgasm, and she knew what it felt to have his. That wasn't something you could just lock away behind a door.
She stormed back into her master bedroom, the plush carpet doing nothing to muffle the furious energy in her steps. The memory of his body—the hard muscles under her hands, the desperate look in his eyes warring with the blatant need in his jeans—was a film she couldn't wipe away. It was a phantom itch deep inside her, an ache that her own fingers suddenly seemed too small to satisfy.
But she had to try.
She yanked open the bottom drawer of her nightstand, the one reserved for things not meant for casual display. The collection of silicone and glass gleamed under the warm morning light. She bypassed the modest beginners, her fingers closing around a thick, veined dildo, a deep purple one she’d bought on a whim and rarely used. It was big, but as she slicked it with gel and pressed the cold tip against her swollen folds, she knew it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t him.
She worked it inside, a slow, stretching burn that made her gasp. Her back arched on the mattress, her free hand kneading her breast, pinching her nipple through the silk of her robe. She fucked herself with it, hard and fast, the base slapping against her clit with each thrust. But her mind wasn't on the toy. It was on the memory of being him, of looking down and seeing that thick, angry cock, her cock, jutting out from a body that was now his. She remembered the weight of it, the power, the sheer animal pleasure of driving it into a wet, willing heat.
"Fuck," she moaned into the empty room, the word torn from her. The toy wasn't right. It was all wrong.
With a frustrated cry, she tossed it aside, it landed on the carpet with a dull thud. She reached for the next one, black and even thicker, monstrously so. She lubed it greedily, her cunt clenching in anticipation and a flicker of fear. This was the one that usually made her eyes water. She positioned the blunt, terrifying head at her entrance and pushed.
Her breath hitched. It was a brutal, stretching fullness, a burn that bordered on pain. She forced it deeper, her muscles screaming in protest before yielding, accepting the invasion. This was closer. This was the feeling of being split open, the feeling she’d given him when she was in his body, fucking into her own with a frantic, possessive fury. She imagined it was Garrett above her, his blonde hair messy, his blue eyes dark with a lust that overrode every last one of his stupid morals. She pictured his hands, those long fingers, digging into her hips, holding her down as he drove into her.
"Yes, Garrett... fuck, just like that," she panted, her hips bucking wildly against the fake cock, her fingers working her clit into a frantic, slippery frenzy. "Give me that big cock. I know you want to. I felt how much you wanted it."
The climax ripped through her, violent and shattering. Her body seized, back bowing off the bed as a raw, guttural scream was torn from her throat. Waves of pleasure, so intense they were almost painful, radiated from her core, leaving her trembling and spent, the massive toy still buried inside her.
When the spasms subsided, she pulled it out with a wet, slick sound and lay there, breathing heavily, staring at the ceiling. The physical release was temporary. The emptiness returned, sharper and more profound than before. It wasn't just about an orgasm. It was about that cock. His cock. The one she had owned and operated for weeks. The one that was now, maddeningly, attached to him.
A slow, calculating smile spread across her lips. He thought he could resist out of some sense of decency. But she knew better. She had felt the animalistic drive of that body, the primal need that lived in the base of that spine. He wasn't stronger than it. He was just fighting it.
And she knew exactly how to make him stop fighting.
She sat up, pulling her robe closed. The plan formed in her mind, cold and clear. It wasn't about seduction. It was about engineering a situation where his body would make the choice for him. Where his 'no' would become a physiological impossibility.
She would get what she wanted. What they both wanted. He just needed a little push. Or, more accurately, he needed to be pushed until he fell.