ตำแหน่งองค์รัชทายาท ผมไม่เอาแล้ว

~Mia's POV~

The vibrator made a low, frantic buzzing sound, a persistent companion in my private misery, as I rotated it in a slow, circular motion against my already wet and throbbing pussy. My legs were spread apart, splayed on the silk sheets, toes curled up until the arches of my feet ached, as my eyes fluttered half open from the exciting pleasure now stimulating through me like electric shock waves.

I was chasing a release, a violent, desperate one.

“Fuck…” I moaned, a soft, strangled cry tearing out of me. It was a word of pure, unadulterated need.

This little battery powered device had been my only companion, my only savior, and the closest I’d had to a genuine, soul-shaking orgasm in three, brutally long and lonely years of being married to my husband, Ethan Monroe. He was a man who had only touched me...really touched me...a handful of times since we’d exchanged our vows at the altar.

The first year of our marriage had been good, even great, in terms of our sex life. We were all over each other, a needy, lust fueled mess barely waiting until we got behind a locked door. But that all changed two years ago.

Ethan started taking on more hours at his firm, barely coming back home before midnight, or even if he did, he would always whine and complain about being too tired, too stressed, totally out of the mood. It always left me high and dry, to pleasure myself just like I was doing now. Alone. Always alone.

In the beginning, I blamed myself for his estranged, low libido. Maybe I wasn’t as attractive to him anymore like when we first met, and that’s why he wouldn’t even spare me a second glance. So I attempted to bring back the spark and youthful flame we once shared.

I worked out harder, running until my lungs burned, and went on a strict diet to get my banging body back to its glory days. I even bought an entire new set of different colored lingeries, the sheer, lace edged kind that I knew used to make his mouth water. I bought costumes too...a French maid, a naughty schoolgirl...to elevate our bedroom kinks and spice things up between us.

I was practically begging for his attention, his body.

I planned to put theory into practice tonight. It was our third anniversary, and this year I decided to go all the way out, by reminding him about who the fuck he married three years ago.

I prepared a decadent, candlelit dinner, the table set with his favorite Italian cuisines, and a bottle of fine white champagne buried in an ice bucket. I'd scattered rose petals around like confetti, trailing from the front door all the way to the bedroom, which was already illuminated with red scented candles. More roses were meticulously formed in the shape of a heart symbol on the silk-pressed bedsheets.

Everything was perfect. And so was I.

I was already dressed in a matching red lace lingerie set...a push-up bra barely containing the swell of my tits, and a see-through thong pressing against the dampness of my core. I'd finished the look with thigh-high lace stockings, complementary jewelry, my hair wrapped in a chic bun, my make-up layered softly, and the finishing touch, a glossy, yet dangerous red lipstick.

I sat down at the dining table, agitated for Ethan to arrive, hoping we could easily skip dinner and just dive right into dessert. Me.

An hour passed, then two.

Nothing. Not a single footstep, nor the familiar screeching of tires against the asphalt to announce his arrival.

I glanced at the analog clock on the wall. 10:30 PM already. He was justifiably late. I reached for my phone, placed beside me, to send a follow-up text. As soon as I unlocked it, a message notification popped up from Ethan.

It read: “SORRY! Babe, I won't be coming home tonight. Major crisis with the L.A. client. Don’t wait up. Kisses, xoxo.”

My carefully laid plans, my desperate hopes, my hours of effort. All shattered completely by a single, casual, heartbreaking text message.

The initial flutter of excitement I'd felt earlier, the heady, anticipation fueled buzz that had driven me to dress up and set the scene, was now violently gone, replaced by a cold, leaden weight.

I sat still, rooted to the chair for a moment longer, my mind reeling on how I should have known. It always ended up just the same way. The only difference was the scale of the waste. My eyes skimmed the beautifully filled table, the pasta, the wine, the melting ice bucket...a shrine to a marriage that was clearly over in everything but name.

Why did I even bother to still keep this farce of a marriage together? I was so starved emotionally, yes, but mostly, furiously, sexually.

Was it really so wrong for me to crave my husband's touch? To want his big, heavy cock buried deep between my thighs until I screamed his name?

Tears, hot and stinging, welled up in my eyes, threatening to ruin the painstakingly applied mascara. I blinked them back savagely.

No. I wouldn't cry. Not over him.

A final, cold decision settled in my gut: if he didn't want me, if he didn't crave me as much as I did him, then there was no use chasing after him any longer.

With a jerk, I stood up from the table, my lace-clad body suddenly feeling too exposed, too ridiculous in this lonely setting. I headed straight into the bedroom. Once inside, I walked over to the wardrobe and dug out the sleek, pink device...my vibrator...which was just a few seconds into its warm-up when the devastating text had arrived.

I tossed the red robe I’d considered wearing aside and lay back on the silk sheets, the plush pillow cool beneath my neck. I guided the buzzing head to the exact, needy spot, pressing down hard. I needed the violence of the sensation to push the pain out.

I squirmed, hips bucking, a low, guttural moan building in my throat. I shook slightly, letting the waves of pleasure drown out the sound of the clock ticking and the quiet emptiness of the house. I worked my way around my clit, circling, pressing, rubbing.

My head was thrown back slightly, the delicate muscles in my neck straining, as I bit down hard on my lower lip until I tasted the faint copper of my own blood.

“Oh, God. Fuck....”

The climax was building fast now, a tight knot of exquisite tension coiling deep in my core. I felt myself about to reach my peak, felt the violent, shaking release on the very precipice…

Knock. Knock.

Two sharp, distinct raps drifted from the bedroom door, instantly disrupting my moment.

My breath hitched.

Shit!!!