Driving River

Chapter Fourteen

Kendall

Water droplets hit the black tile floor, ricocheting onto my shins and feet. The shower is built into the corner of the bathroom, with two walls made of glass. Condensation clings to the slick material, obfuscating it. The ensuite's lights have been dimmed, and diluted further by the steam. I'm uncertain if the heat is a result of the water temperature, or my mood.

I am no longer sexually frustrated. I'm fuming.

I've washed and shaved, but I refuse to leave the shower. I'm stewing in the humidity, seething in a wet cubicle. I stare at the metal faucet, my arms crossed over my naked chest.

After dinner, River cleaned the kitchen. I waited, swinging from side to side on the barstool, and ran through scenarios in my head. How would River Boone make me earn his cock? My pussy throbbed in anticipation. My heart thumped a concerning rhythm against my breastbone. My eyes followed him as he set the last dish in the cabinet. Then, he entered the living room, where he plopped onto the couch, opened his laptop, arranged his headset over his ears, and began to play a video game.

Dumbfounded, I stared at River for a full five minutes. Not once did he look at me, justify his rudeness, or explain his change of plans. We were supposed to fuck, right? Hard, and for a long, long time. Those were his words.

My confusion morphed to scorn. My excitement turned into disappointment. And my arousal dried, leaving a sticky film between my legs. I hopped off the stool with an exaggerated huff, and stalked by him on my way to the stairs. I swept past his suite and into my own, slamming the door behind me.

Now, I'm squeaky clean, my hair is detangled, and my fingertips are pruny. It's been over thirty minutes, so when a burst of cool air hits my back—signaling another person has entered the shower—I refuse to turn. I keep my arms folded over my chest, pop my hip, and tap my foot. If he can't read my body language, he should visit an optometrist.

"When I first saw you," River begins, his voice weaving through the humid air, sticking to my skin. Although I sensed him standing behind me, the deep melody is startling—such a change from the white noise of the shower. "I figured you were a submissive who had put her trust in the wrong partner. I formed a profile of you in my head—spoiled, obedient, holier-than-thou."

I cant my head, refusing to acknowledge him.

"You proved me wrong, and challenged my opinion at every opportunity," he continues, drawing nearer. His breath ghosts the nape of my neck, curling around my throat like a collar. "You're not submissive, yet you appreciate guidance. You're obedient, as long as you trust the person enforcing the rules.

"You were raised to steer clear of men like me, but I think you enjoy getting dirty." River brushes my wet hair to one side, snapping me to attention. He drags a single knuckle down my spine, speaking as he does. "I got the spoiled part right, though. You throw tantrums when things don't go your way, or when people make you wait. You're a brat, and you're proud of it."

He's correct. I am all of those things, but only because he's brought out the darkness in me. Traits I previously thought were ugly or uncouth, River has found value in them—outspokenness, disobedience, imperfection. I don't know if it's maturity, or if River is the culprit, but I have been changing. I'm on the brink of the unknown. It could be great, or terrible, but at least I have room to grow. River allows me the freedom to be myself. Around him, I'm not afraid to use my voice—to disagree, to argue, or to express discomfort. He doesn't make me feel ashamed for being who I am.

And tonight, I want to be bad.

"That's right," I murmur, lowering my voice so he has to lean closer to hear. His scent mixes with mine, lilac and motor oil, and if that isn't indicative of my evolution, I don't know what is. "I'm not submissive, so don't expect me to kneel at your feet for scraps. I'm spoiled, impatient, and I've craved your attention from the beginning."