Craving: A Kylo Ren Tale

Twelve

"Not a word, Jimmy," I warn him playfully.

I'm in last night's club clothes, hair a mess, smudged makeup under dark sunglasses (that aren't keeping the sun away from my eyes as much as I wish they would), with a to-go cup of coffee in my hand.

"Ya look great, doll," he heartily chuckles as he lets me in the building.

After a long steamy shower and another cup of black coffee, I finally start to feel like a human again. The thought of food makes my stomach slightly turn, and I'm somewhat thankful that Kylo is out of town so I don't have to do any cooking this morning.

I wonder what he's doing right now.

Having the week off sounds nice in theory, but I hate placidity. I'm the type of person that needs to keep moving moving moving, never letting my mind or body sit still for too long.

For a few hours I do some work on my computer while laying in the living room, thinking to myself that I'm probably the first to actually relax in this space. Kylo is either in his own bedroom or one of the studios at all times. Or you know, jetting off across the country without informing his assistant.

I find a remote and turn on the large TV over the fireplace, spend a few more hours binging Game of Thrones. When I'm bored with that too, I head to the library down the hall and write in my journal for a bit, then read a few chapters in a novel.

By the time early evening rolls around I'm bored out of my god damn mind.

I wander back to the kitchen and heat up some leftovers for dinner. As soon as the curry hits my lips I'm transported back to the snowy balcony. Remembering the lingering spice on his tongue.

Fuck.

Without thinking, my hand reaches for my phone and begins typing him a message.

I want you to kiss me like that all the time.

Delete delete delete, DELETE. Have I lost my fucking mind?? I can't send him that shit.

You confuse me, but I like it.

Nope, nope, definitely not. Delete. The last thing I need is for him to know that his mind games are actually working.

So what do I say? How do I convey that I want it to happen again, without seeming desperate or weak..? Finally I find the right words.

Let me know if there's anything I can do for you. Absolutely anything at all.

I pray that he can read the subliminal message in the text, and if he doesn't then hopefully it seems like nothing more than a professional note sent from an employee who means well.

My thumb lingers over the send button, and then I muster enough bravery to slam it down. Sent.

I'm finally over my small hangover, but decide I need a glass of wine for courage. I sip it outside on the chilly balcony while smoking a post-dinner cigarette, and soon enough twenty minutes go by without a response. I resign myself, thinking he'll leave me on "read" once again.

But then my phone dings.

There are quite a few things I need from you.

My heart stops. I chain smoke my current cigarette trying to understand his meaning, trying to figure out how in the hell I respond to that. But thankfully he sends a second text in quick succession.

You need to wear something nicer than a band tee to the holiday party. Important people will be there, buy something suitable. Use the credit card. No grungy punk shit.

Okay, I can do that.

Before I stop myself, I send a follow up.

Any preferences?

Red.

How else can I be of service?

Stop flirting with my fucking driver.

I can't help but smirk like an idiot while staring at my phone. Is he... jealous? Or just possessive? Either way, the thoughts send a shockwave through my core. My brain works to come up with the perfect response, something that will please him. Ah, I know what he wants to hear.

Yes, Sir.

He doesn't bother to reply, but in my mind I take that as a good sign. I'm starting to understand the way he works, well okay, not really. But I'm at least starting to understand the game.

As I make my way back to my room, I find myself walking the long way around the penthouse. Curiosity is overtaking me, and I soon find myself exploring.

I turn into the eastern hallway and skip past his bedroom, too scared to venture inside or even crack the door. But I am drawn towards the closed doors of the studios.

He calls me a mouse, huh? Well when the cat's away...

With a small creak, the door to the first workspace opens and I find myself inside a photography studio. Various pieces of camera equipment, lights, tripods, backdrops. The large windows are blacked out with thick curtains. I notice a velvet couch to one side, a desk with a computer to the other.

I wander deeper into the room and find a second door, and upon inspection I see that it leads to a dark room. Chemicals line the shelves, rolls of negatives litter the tables. I had a feeling he would develop his photos the old fashioned way, he's too much of a control freak not to. Before I get the urge to explore his photographs and truly be a snoop, I leave the space.

Back in the hall, I make my way to what I now know to be his painting studio. I open the door that was once slammed in my face, and begin to explore the space I glimpsed the other night.

So many canvases in the large room, some finished and others half realized. I can tell he's gone through different phases and styles, different moods and colors, but everything has his unique touch. They're all undeniably his.

Most pieces are abstract, some are borderline surrealist, none are absolute realism. His works are often scary or sensual, sometimes both. They evoke deep seated emotions, troubling thoughts, illicit sexual feelings.

I completely understand why he's lauded by the critics. I've never seen work like this before. He's radical with his paintbrush, unrelenting with his vision. He really goes to deep and dark places in his psyche to create these wonders, and I now grasp why he hates being interrupted. It must be so difficult to be in this creative headspace.

Just like I did when I was googling information about his life, I suddenly feel terrible for peeping into his private spaces. I just so desperately want to understand this man, but decide in this moment that I'll let him show me these sides of himself if he so chooses. No more prying.

I pull myself away from his workspace, mind still imagining his large hands gracefully and aggressively working the paintbrushes across the canvases.

Making my way back to my room, I shut my door and push my back against it. My hand frantically works its way into my pants, finding my panties drenched.

As I stand leaning on the closed door, I rub my bundled nerves feverishly as different thoughts flash through my mind.

The kiss on the balcony. The shredded images of his former lovers. His color flecked hands exploring my naked body. The haunting images he paints. The way he'd feel inside of me, using my body.

I let the thoughts consume me, and cum twice before I can finally get him off my mind.