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But the one I managed was intense.

Necessary.

Probably because?—

You haven’t jerked off in months. Years?

Neither have you, Artemis. Can it.

Damn. That’s cold. Too soon. Way too soon.

Eventually, I find my way back to my senses, I’m almost immediately aggravated. Fucking Ero. Stupid jackass. And me an even bigger jackass for letting him get to me.

God I want him to get to me. Hard.

Ugh. He’s repulsive. Frustrating. Impossible.

I want to beat his ass to a pulp. And I want him to throw me up against a wall and make me ride his cock until I can’t stand up.

My thoughts drift below me, through the floors and down one of the halls in the dungeon-like basement where I know he’s being held.

Another pang of guilt smothers all my wants, chasing me into my bedroom, wrapped in a towel. Why should it bother me what Ananke is doing to him right now? What they’re saying?

He’s probably mouthing off to her and getting put in his place…

I’m tapping on my phone before I can stop myself.

Any issues with our guest?

A few seconds of waiting and I toss the device down on the bed, growling softly and shaking out my hair. And wow I’m pathetic when I hear the damn thing buzz and I dive onto the covers, almost fumbling it onto the floor.

I’ve concluded with my assessment for now. I’ll be absent for a few days while my initial impression has a chance to digest. Leave him to stew for a day.

I don’t bother replying.

Flopping onto my back, I let the remnants of my release cascade back over me. In a few seconds, days of hard work drag me into a deep, dreamless sleep.

“Go to him.Now. Play your part.”

The voice note wakes me up, dinging in the early morning. I must have slept more than half a day, from one afternoon and all night. Stiff muscles make sitting up a chore, standing up even more so.

By the time I dress, it’s nothing physical that has me locked up in front of the bathroom mirror, staring at myself. Deep breath.

Tussling my hair, I push my shoulders back.

I look …

Hot as fuck, girl.

… like a stranger.

Other than eyeliner and mascara, I rarely use makeup. Blessings of my genetics that I’ve always had golden, smoothskin. I’ve usually tried to tame my hair, straightening it, fighting with it. A stray memory reminds me how badly I wanted to shave it as a teen.

“All to make changing my appearance easier,” I mutter with a bitter little chuckle.

Wiggling in the tight outfit, I take one last look at the slutty looking woman staring back at me with my eyes, steeling my resolve. This is silly. Mostly for the fact that I actually, really want him to think I look pretty.

Dumb girl shit. Stop it.