At Mr. Cartwright's Command by Ingrid Ash

again, pressing his forehead against his.
    His lips part and I feel his breath on mine. “I'm leaving tomorrow. You know that, right?” he says.
    I purse my lips. “Oh, is that tomorrow? Sorry, I forgot,” I reply with a coy batting of my lashes. Mr. Cartwright's green eyes narrow and I get really good kick out of that.
    “I'm expecting you to say goodbye to me properly tonight,” he says with a raise of his thick eyebrow.
    I smirk and reply, “That can be arranged.”
    I step back from him and he looks at me oddly, taking me by the hips and pushing me against the cold shower window. “That doesn't let you off the hook right now,” he growls through gritted teeth. His mouth finds the curve of my neck and I feel my body melt against his once again. My lips part, barely audible whimpers emanating from my throat as his hand lands against my breast. He gropes me, twisting his hot tongue against my skin, nipping me with his teeth and I squirm against him. His hands slip under my thighs, hoisting me up and wedging me between the shower door and himself. I curl my arms around his shoulders, holding on tight as he positions himself against me. He slides me down onto his cock slowly – I gasp as I stretch around him, feeling every inch of him fill me and split me wide.
    I come to a rest against his body, tightening my legs around his hips as he holds me tightly against the shower wall, resting his chin against my shoulder. Instinctively I wind my fingers through his hair as he begins to rock into me. He's slow and rhythmic in his movements, fully knowing that he's making me want it even more. Rolling my hips hard against him does the trick – I hear him moan into my ear, followed by one long and forceful thrust after another. I cry out in passion but keep up with his every motion, moving with him and bucking against him as he pushes deep inside me. His hands come up to my hair, grabbing a fistful my locks and pulling them hard as he twitches inside me. I clutch his body, feeling him shudder against me as we come together.
    I unravel myself from him, placing my feet back on the slipper shower floor. He stays close, his body arching over me and chest heaving as he props himself against the wall by the elbow. I look up at him and his eyes are dark and intense – I can barely read him and I can't tell if he's happy or mad. A hint of both dance in his eyes.
    He backs away, holding me squarely in his gaze. “You're getting too comfortable with this,” he says.
    “I'm what?” I ask.
    He pushes me away from the door abruptly, sliding it open and stepping out of the shower.
    “Just be ready for me when I get back tonight,” he mumbles as he grabs a nearby towel.
    I lean back against the cool shower wall and listen as he leaves. Mr. Cartwright is like a riddle – a riddle I just can't seem to solve.
     
    *
     
    He told me to be ready for him, but he didn't tell me when. Because I've been ready for several hours now and still no sign of Mr. Cartwright.
    Or, as I call it, another day in the Cartwright household.
    For some strange reason I thought things would change after I moved in, but Mr. Cartwright is just as unpredictable as ever. But I've gotten a lot done over the last few months – I've learned to swim, I've learned to ride, and I've had plenty of time to study in his extensive library. Next on my agenda is to learn to cook – and not just basic recipes, but fine international cuisine. That is, if I can ever get Evelyn to let me into her kitchen.
    But I can't lie, all of this makes me restless. Most people would kill for the life of a rich pampered housewife, and I can't complain, but some nights, like tonight, I stretch across my bed and just wonder what any of it is good for. If I'm on the street next year, no one will care if I can cook filet mignon.
    I roll on to my side, my lids growing heavy as I gaze out into the dark night sky. It's past midnight now and the hum of the television becomes more and more distant