Ramsay gazed pensively at the dim screen of her cell phone. Three days, no word from Seth. Considering that their so-called relationship generally involved almost daily contact, Ramsay found his elusiveness worrisome. Then again, she mused, glancing for the hundredth time at her maddeningly silent phone, it was absurd to expect Seth to play the doting lover. Her sister's 25-year-old ex-boyfriend was hardly a paragon of chivalry. But far more to the point, their liaison seemed destined to die on the vine: Gaby was still calling her regularly to mope over her breakup with Seth, her mother was still furious at Seth for causing Gaby so much unhappiness, and Seth himself seemed to regard Ramsay as little more than an addictive distraction. It was not the stuff of great romance. In fact, if she continued to "distract" him, domestic disaster was sure to ensue.
And yet he was all she could think about. In the weeks following her eighteenth birthday party, which Ramsay dimly recalled as the night Seth granted her drunken request to be rid of her virginity, he had practically turned her into a nymphomaniac. The mere thought of his bruising kisses and shameless fingers never failed to get her wet. She had never really made a habit of touching herself, but every time she lay down on her bed to savor her memories of watching Seth eagerly tease her pussy with his tongue and fingers, her own fingers invariably found their way into her panties.
Placing her cell phone on her night table, Ramsay lay down, closed her eyes, and conjured the image of Seth's mouth, his seductively slow-blinking eyes. She thought of the full lips that could--and often did--kiss her with punishing force, of the hardness of his arms as he knelt over her. He had, on several occasions, called her his fuck slut, and rather than being insulted, she'd been aroused--perhaps because the epithet seemed more his way of asserting ownership over her than anything else. And, wrong though it seemed, she wanted very much to be his possession. "Fuck slut," she whispered to herself as she imagined feeling Seth's hot breath on her neck, imagined hearing his thick growl in her ear.
She traced her lips with one finger while the other hand glided down her neck and gently cupped one breast and then the other. But although her own touch felt pleasant, it was almost more soothing than stimulating. Seth's lovemaking had conditioned her to crave rough, possessive touches: she needed to be held down and groped, not caressed politely. She groaned in frustration.
What would Seth say, she wondered, if he were there? She shut her eyes tightly and recalled the many orders he had barked at her, the many demands he had made of her. The way he posed questions--especially questions regarding her desire for his cock--never sounded interrogatory: they were more like bald, vaguely mocking commands. Ramsay reached for the fly of her blue jeans as she struggled to remember exactly the way Seth sounded when he asked her whether--or, rather, told her--she wanted to be fucked. Usually by the time he was demanding to be inside her, her nipples were hard and wet with his saliva, her pussy so wet that the insides of her thighs felt slippery. He always reduced her to a puddle of raw need.
Ramsay ran her middle finger tentatively along her slit. The thought of Seth's voice, of his alarmingly arousing words, had made her pussy a bit moist. She bit her lip as her finger ventured into the tight folds. "So fuckin' tight," Seth had once groaned as he drove his cock easily into her. He had then reminded her--in language that made her blush--that her body was for his exclusive use.
"Oh, God," she murmured, gently pumping her middle finger in and out of her pussy.
"Oh, fuck."
Ramsay's eyes snapped open. Her hand froze. She knew that voice.
Seth was standing in her bedroom doorway, his gaze fixed lewdly on Ramsay's hand. She lay there helplessly, her blush so deep she could feel her cheeks burning. Her mouth was ajar, her body paralyzed.
"Well, don't let me stop you," he drawled, a smile curling his lips.
Ramsay regained her faculties at last, removed her hand from her panties and sat bolt upright. How had Seth gotten into the apartment? Where had he been for the last three days? Why hadn't he called her? There were too many questions to ask.
She started with the simplest one. "How long have you been standing there?" She stood up and began refastening her jeans.
"Long enough to get a fucking hard-on." He leaned against the door frame.
Ramsay's eyes traveled involuntarily to the bulge in his jeans. The frequency and duration of his erections had always fascinated her, but at the moment she was too embarrassed and too angry with Seth to indulge in any sexually charged repartee.
"So what was I doing?" he asked, crossing his arms over his chest.
"What?" She had moved over to her vanity.
"What were you thinking about while you were frigging yourself? What was I doing?" He strolled over to her bed and sat down on it.
"You were leaving my bedroom and going back home," she retorted, struggling to look blasé as she pretended to preen before the mirror.
"Are you sure I wasn't fucking you from behind?" He caught her gaze in the vanity mirror. "Or maybe I was licking your pussy?" He smiled and arched one eyebrow.
God, he was making this hard, thought Ramsay as she planned her next move. She wanted to kiss him so badly she felt a small shiver run down her spine, but she wanted even more to find out why he'd pulled a disappearing act.
She spun around to face him. "My mother will be home any minute," she said coolly.
His grin broadened. "Oh, yeah? Is that why were you playing with yourself with the bedroom door wide open?" He cocked his head in mock curiosity.
The fact was that Ramsay's mother wasn't due back for a few more hours. How, she wondered, did Seth know he'd find her alone? Fresh out of retorts, she sighed.
"Come on," he said, patting the bed playfully. "Sit with me."
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because you can't walk into my room after ignoring me for three days and expect me to jump into your arms."
"I'm not asking you to jump into my arms," he replied, his smile gone. "I'm asking you to sit with me." He patted the bed so emphatically she heard the mattress springs groan.
She glowered at him and crossed her arms defensively, mostly because his gaze kept resting on the bit of cleavage that peeked out from the neckline of her sweater. "Where the hell were you?"
He lay back on her bed and rubbed his eyes. "Pub crawl in Chicago. My buddies and I."
Ramsay snorted. "For three days?"
