T-MINUS 20 DAYS.
Today’s lethal dose of misery came from the usual suspects—Celeste Ayi, Mom, and their delusions that the wedding would continue as planned.
(Mom still refused to accept defeat. Celeste Ayi considered the prospect of returning her custom-made dress a national travesty.)
Mom sat at the island, before a massive binder that contained the names of every member of our family—past and present. “Zachary, are you not worried about finalizing the guest list?”
“Is someone getting married?” I stabbed into an egg yolk, just to watch it bleed, and moved on to the mango. “Certainly not me. My engagement was canceled.”
I sipped my espresso, wondering what Farrow was doing right now. Working? Practicing on the piste? Causing trouble with Dallas?
The fact that she lived across the street yet still managed to avoid me could be used as a CIA case study. Even as I channeled my inner Joe Goldberg. Working in front of the window. Fucking up all my calculations. Glancing up every ten seconds to see if she’d passed by.
Not my finest moment.
“Don’t be silly.” Mom flipped a page in the binder, stamping a tab onto the outer margin. “Eileen forwarded me her guest list.”
“Speaking of Eileen, I filed a missing persons case for her this morning.”
Well, tried to.
Apparently, one could not file a missing persons case for the sole reason that they responded to everyone but you.
Mom stared at me as if I’d joined the Moonies and wanted to fork over my net worth. “She’s busy working hard on creating the wedding of our dreams. It’s best not to bother her for the next few months.”
“I would love to not bother her for the next few lifetimes.”
“Oh.” Celeste Ayi dove forward, jabbing a finger at a name. “Let’s invite Xiao Bai to the tea ceremony. Maybe she’ll finally cough up the recipe for her dan dan noodles.”
“Don’t bother. You’ll get the ingredients but not the measurements.” Mom swatted her hand away, pausing at a name. “How about Olivia? She’s darling.”
“A darling bitch.” Ayi took a butter knife to the page, scratching her out of the Zhao family records. “So condescending just because she spoke better English than me. So what if I didn’t know slang when I first came? Fuck you was easy enough to learn.”
Shards of their conversation slashed through my consciousness. Something hot and violent stirred inside me.
I downed the espresso like a shot, discarding it on the island before tugging my phone out of my pocket. My knuckle brushed my dick along the way.
That was enough to elicit a hiss from my lips.
No one told me I’d be reduced to animalistic needs after losing my virginity. With Octi away, I’d gone from fucking three to four times a day to zero.
Suddenly, Oliver von Bismarck’s entire existence made infinitely more sense.
I hadn’t even jerked off since she’d waltzed out of my life, leaving me in chaos. Not for lack of effort.
Last night, when I pulled up random porn, I couldn’t even get hard.
Fine. I missed Farrow.
Sue me.
Farrow Ballantine and her flowing hair, perfect length for fisting. And her lean thighs, so skilled at riding my cock. And her tight pussy, so sweet and soft like the mango on my plate.
“Out.”
It took a moment for the three of us to realize the harsh growl had come from me.
Mom frowned, padding to me.
She placed her hand over my forehead, then retreated before it made contact, remembering that I hated touching. “Are you okay?”
“Please. Leave.”
I sliced the mango in half, just before the pit, forcing myself to look somewhat normal. Sensing my mood, Ayi chose self-preservation, leading Mom out of my mansion by force.
As soon as the door closed, I gripped the edge of the countertop with my free hand, squeezing hard. My eyes slammed shut.
I conjured Farrow into my mind, naked and spread-eagle across the island. With her pink nipples and glistening pussy, waiting just for me.
“Octi,” I choked out, hardening in my slacks.
In my imagination, she invited me closer, writhing on the counter as she trailed one hand between her legs, swirling her finger around her swollen clit.
My cock strained against my pants as my mouth watered. I imagined myself leaning down, getting a taste of her delicious, soaked pussy.
I took a greedy bite out of the mango. Juices flowed down my chin. The fruity scent filled my nostrils as I tasted her. Sugary and earthy.
Perfect, perfect, perfect.
A growl ripped from my throat as I feasted on the mango, faster and harder now, envisioning myself eating her out.
I stood, pushing my cock against the cabinet, welcoming the friction, humping my own kitchen like a dog as I ate.
Without her, I’d lost my mind, my dignity, my grip on reality.
“Octi.”
I hollowed out the mango, coming inside my own pants. The milky, hot cum shot into the fabric, refusing to end.
I tossed the mango flesh into the sink and dropped my head between my shoulders in frustration. My entire body convulsed, shuddering as if going through intense withdrawals.
I couldn’t take another minute without her.
Fuck it.
I plucked my phone out and pressed call on the first speed dial.
Then promptly hung up before it even rang, because I was officially, completely, and utterly pussy-whipped.
Pathetic and doomed, I repeated the process again and again.
Call.
End.
Green.
Red.
A glutton for punishment.
I wanted her touch.
I. Wanted. Her. Touch.
Cum stained my Kiton slacks, crusting against my skin. Untamed strands of hair stuck to my temples. I hadn’t done any grooming in days.
I glanced up, staring at my reflection in the shiny sink, not recognizing myself.
Sweat crept down my cheeks. A red flush stretched forehead-to-chin, ear-to-ear.
I flicked on the faucet and lowered my face beneath the current, releasing an anguished roar.
When I lifted my head up, Mom stared at me from across the island, reaching for her forgotten purse.
She clutched it to her chest, her voice small. “Are you sick, Zachary?”
I’m not sick, I thought wretchedly. Just in love.
