It had been five days since that night.
Five days since Master Vincent wrecked me, rearranged the molecules in my body, and stitched me back together with sweat, dominance, and aftercare.
And I was unwell.
I couldn't think. Couldn't focus. I would be typing a report and suddenly feel his hands at my throat. Driving to school pickup and flashback to the sting of leather. Shopping for cereal, and my thighs would tremble at the thought of being bent over again.
I kept sniffing the towel he had used to dry me—yes, I kept it. Unwashed. It still held the scent of him: musk, beer, sin, and my surrender.
I was hooked.
Not emotionally. Not yet.
But chemically. Physically. Carnally.
I wanted him again.
I needed him.
But his calendar was fully booked.
Motlatjo had warned me.
> "You don't get to demand his time, chomi. You earn it. MV doesn't do desperation. He's not your boyfriend. He's your mirror."
That pissed me off. Because I wasn't desperate.
I was just… hollow. Every nerve in my body tingled with absence.
I had climbed Everest that night—touched parts of myself I didn't know existed. And now I was stuck in suburbia again. Empty wine glasses. Bed too big. Lingerie too tight.
I texted him on day three:
Lethabo: Good evening, Daddy. Thank you again for Friday. My body is still recovering.
No reply.
Day four:
Lethabo: Would love to know when your next availability is.
Seen. No reply.
Day five:
I paced around my townhouse, wearing nothing but my kimono and anxiety.
I opened our contract file again. Scrolled through it. Tried to find loopholes, clues. Something.
Then, a notification.
MV: You don't call fire to your door if you're not ready to burn.
I paused. Then typed quickly:
Lethabo: I'm still burning.
His typing dots danced for a second. Then stopped.
Then started again.
MV: Be at your place, 9PM sharp. You won't need your tongue tonight. Just your knees.
My breath caught.
That's all I needed.