The Stranger

Chapter 7 - Cassandra

I woke up alone in his bed, the sheets cold beside me. I hadn't even heard him leave. My body felt heavy, a pleasant ache lingering in my muscles, the kind that came from hours of being used, worshipped, claimed. Yet, as I lay there, I couldn't shake the sharp twinge of irritation. He'd left without a word.

My skin still hummed, a soft soreness reminding me of last night's marks, his handprints like faint ghosts on my ass. I loved the lingering sting, that reminder of his control. But as I stretched out on his oversized, impossibly soft bed, irritation seeped in, biting at the edges of my contentment. Maybe he'd gone to get breakfast? Or something romantic, at least, after a night like that. I let the thought go, rolling my eyes. Idiot, I scolded myself. He'd gotten what he wanted. What we both wanted.

I reached for my phone. Four messages. Lisa, as usual, and one from Mum. But nothing from him. A prick of disappointment flared up, which I quickly brushed off. I set the phone aside, still naked, and slipped off the bed, wandering through the room. It was more like a suite, almost a small apartment—spacious and sophisticated, with heavy curtains and gleaming surfaces. A king-size bed, a sleek chaise by the window, leading out to a balcony with a view over Hyde Park.

I let my mind wander as I glanced outside, picturing him moving me to that chaise, his hands on my hips, his voice low in my ear. Or taking me out onto that balcony, pressing me to the glass for the whole world to see. I shook my head, forcing the thoughts down, and headed to the bathroom to draw a bath.

As the warm water soothed me, reality started to settle in. He wasn't coming back. I'd been dismissed. "Mr. Dimples, the charming bastard," I muttered, sinking lower. Alex Dominguez. I remembered his name now, the way it sounded rolling off his own lips. "Alex," I whispered, liking the way it felt. Or Sir. I smirked to myself, letting the memory sink in.

Once I was out and dry, hunger gnawed at me. I needed something comfortable to wear, but all I had was last night's outfit—a far cry from cosy. I spotted his shirt hanging nearby, a clean, white button-down, smelling faintly of him. It was ridiculous how much I wanted to wear it, to feel wrapped up in him even in his absence.

Clad in his shirt, I padded barefoot into the main area. The living room was grand, the kind of sleek, modern opulence designed to make an impression. An L-shaped couch filled the space, big enough for ten people, but I couldn't help picturing just the two of us there—naked, entwined.

On the dining table, I spotted a note in his clean, precise handwriting.

Good morning, Cassandra. I'm sorry I had to leave you like that. I had an early flight to Madrid. Please make yourself at home, order whatever you'd like, and charge it to the room. Thank you for last night. – Alex.

So he hadn't just disappeared out of sheer arrogance. I couldn't decide if that softened my irritation or only deepened it. He was gone, he wasn't coming back today, and there was no promise of next time.

An hour later, I'd ordered breakfast, eaten, and settled into the lingering smell of his cologne as the room emptied of his presence. I'd slipped into a rhythm of musing over the night before when my thoughts drifted back to my phone. Lisa's messages filled my screen:

"Hi babe! Hope you're having a great night. You up to much?"

"Well, I'm assuming that you're busy since you haven't read my message or replied."

"You better be getting laid!"

I considered how to reply, wondering if I should tell her I'd slept with the new, unbelievably sexy boss. But something held me back, the memory of his name on my lips, his hands on my body. Instead, I left her messages unanswered, my finger hovering over the one from Mum.

Hi Cassie, I'd love to have you over for lunch if you're not busy this afternoon. I haven't seen you in a while. Love, Mum.

I sighed. Mum and I had an alright relationship. She'd been lonely since Dad passed five years ago, but that wasn't the problem. Every visit was a reminder of what she thought I was missing—a good man, a family. She didn't understand that I was fine with my independence, that the life she'd wanted for me didn't fit the way she thought it did.

I tapped out a reply. Sure, Mum. I'll get ready and let you know when I'm on my way. xx

I knew I'd have to change out of his shirt, but when I started unbuttoning it, I couldn't resist sinking back onto his bed. I closed my eyes, letting my mind drift to him. My fingers moved down the fabric, and I could almost feel his hands there instead, rough and insistent, his voice low in my ear.

Slowly, my hand slid lower, brushing between my legs, where I was already aching, already wanting. I licked my fingers, imagining they were his, warm and strong, pushing past my lips. I let my hand move downward, brushing over my stomach, my hips, until I reached that tender spot. My breath hitched as I circled my clit, slow at first, then faster, as his voice echoed in my mind.

"Good girl," he'd said, and the words shot straight through me, twisting me up with the memory of how much I wanted to be good for him, to say yes to anything he asked. I spread my legs wider, slipping my fingers inside, imagining him there, filling me, his weight pressing down, his lips at my neck, his hands pinning me in place. I could hear him commanding me, urging me closer, pushing me toward release.

"Come for me," his voice ordered in my head, and I obeyed, the orgasm rippling through me, leaving me spent and wanting, wishing he was here to finish what he'd started. But the pleasure left me hollow, the disappointment settling in as I lay back, alone.

After a moment, I got up and dressed, leaving his shirt folded neatly on the bed. Well, that was the plan—I ended up taking it with me instead, slipping it into my bag as I headed out, telling myself it was just a little souvenir.

A part of me wanted to keep his scent close, a reminder of the night I hadn't known I needed. The night he had opened up something I didn't even know was there.