Her fingers sneak a small rub, and a little moan escapes her mouth. Desire flashes through me, so I stroke my dick, crooning to her.
“Control, Georgie. It’s one of the most important lessons in life. Delayed gratification can be the best. So decide. Do you want to come now and never have me again? Or can your pussy wait and come when I’m ready to allow it?”
She turns to her side and squeezes her legs together, her breath coming in short, little pants. I fist my cock, squeeze and pull. She slides closer to me and swallows the head of my dick.
“You,” she whispers, moving her mouth away from my dick long enough to impart that.
At her words, I shoot off a glob of cum, her sucking motion, as she swallows, making me growl.
Chapter Nineteen
Cassandra
Parnell hates me. He knows everything about me and Sloane, about my confrontation with Georgie. The way I treated her. He knows it all. And it’s Georgie whom he despises me over.
Somehow, my mother convinced him not to leave. He stayed, but, they took me away. They chose to have me locked away instead of Georgie. Throwing both of us into the hospital for treatment would have been fairer, and made more sense. But, no. It was decided the family couldn’t endure the scandal of having me and Georgie in here. So they chose Georgie for freedom, and left me here to rot.
I want out because I’m going insane in this small, sterile room with dim lighting and white walls. It stays cold in here and I’m wearing thin, facility-issued gowns. Mother and Parnell won’t even allow me the luxury of my silk pajamas.
While I haven’t had sex in days, my imagination runs wild thinking of what Parnell is doing with Abby, and I’m wallowing in envy and disgust wondering what Georgie is doing and with whom?
The only satisfaction I derive is the fact that Sloane Mason has not only left me behind, but Georgie, too.
The door opens and I glance over my shoulder, pursing my lips when my doctor walks in. He’s so taciturn, but I know he isn’t older than forty. He’s not particularly handsome, but his face is…striking.
“Cassandra,” he greets. He thinks familiarity will breed divergence. Silly man.
I grunt a response and he walks around to the side I’m facing. Unless I lift my eyes, my gaze is directly on his crotch. Instead of allowing me to enjoy the view, he backs away and sits. I wish I could zap his chair away, so he can fall on his ass.
I smile.
He studies me. “What are you smiling about?”
“Magically obliterating your chair and watching you fall on your ass.”
He nods. “Do you often have these violent tendencies?”
“Get the stick out of your ass. Who doesn’t at one time or another?”
“Many people.” He shifts in his seat. “I’ve researched you. I couldn’t help myself, once your mother and husband finished explaining your behavior to me. The Cassandra McCall they describe—the one from the Society pages—is…” He grimaces. “Not you.”
My heart is suddenly heavy and I touch my hair. When I brush my teeth, I refuse to look in the mirror. I won’t be able to bear seeing gray hair. I don’t answer, for fear I’ll dissolve into sobs. He doesn’t understand. No one does. I can’t express how fractured I feel with each passing year, grasping for the remnants of my youth, when it keeps slipping away.
I can’t get it back.
Sometimes, I think killing myself is the answer. Then…then…eventually, my soul will be recycled and I’ll be reborn. I’ll be new again.
I scratch my nose, not even sure if I believe in reincarnation. But I don’t know how to be happy. I’ve been miserable for so long. The closest I’ve come to peace and joy was when Georgie was locked away.
If I trusted the doctor, and if my mother and husband loved me, I’d tell one of them, or all of them. But I suffer neither trust nor love, so I stay silent.
“If you had one wish, what would it be?” he asks.
“Youth, beauty, adoration,” I croak out. It’s the truth. Want of those things have driven me half mad.
“Did your mother feel the same way at your age?”
I scowl at him. “My mother was too busy aging with grace and enjoying her life to concern herself with something so mundane.”
“So she ignored you.”
“If only.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, she once always praised my beauty and interfered in every aspect of my life.”
“She stopped?”
“When my daughter was born, I became invisible to them.” I laugh bitterly. “Of course, Georgie is just as unseen to her father.” Or so I thought. He was beside himself when she slit her wrists enough to have hit me.
“Do you love your mother and your daughter?”
I roll my eyes. “Do they love me?”
“You tell me, Cassandra.”
“My mother has her own life and so does Georgie,” I say with an impatient wave of my hand, although I know my mother loves me. She’s always found a method to give me my way.
“She’s sixteen. Your daughter,” he adds, testing me when he structures sentences like my mother.
“And?”