He didn’t take the key with him this morning.
Usually it’s on his carabiner, clicking against his truck fob while he drinks his coffee by the door. But today at 7:10 AM, while I was still tangled in the sheets, I heard the metallic clink of brass against the glass coaster on my nightstand.
I rolled over. He was buttoning his denim shirt, looking down at me with those cold, amused eyes.
“It’s right there,” he said softly, nodding at the small brass padlock key sitting two inches from my phone.
“Brett…”
“Don’t touch it.”
“Brett, please, I’ve been locked since Tuesday—”
“I know,” he said, leaning down to press a kiss to my forehead. “If that key moves even half an inch, Kit, you’re staying in it through Sunday. Understood?”
“Yes,” I whimpered into the pillow.
The front door clicked shut. The deadbolt turned.
I lay in bed staring at the tiny glint of brass. My cock was throbbing inside the polycarbonate shell, aching so hard against the air vents that every pulse felt like a bruise. My hand hovered over the coaster three times. I wanted to grab it. I wanted to jam it into the lock and twist the cylinder until the shackle popped open and I could stroke myself into the mattress until I cried.
Instead, I dragged myself across the sheets, put my chin on the nightstand, and just pressed my cheek against the cold metal ring.
Smelling his aftershave on the brass.
Counting the minutes until five o’clock.
