My pussy clenches when he shoves his fingers inside me. The smell of blood mixes with my pee, and then with something else.
It can’t be possible, but his mouth is forcing me to come undone.
Maybe it’s because that, with my eyes closed, I don’t have to know it’s him. I can pretend Peter Monroe is in prison where he belongs and not keeping me pressed to my bedroom wall.
Peter can become Fyre.
Fyre is the one forcing my legs open. He’s the one exploring my pussy with his blood-drenched fingertips. He’s the one kissing me breathless as he starts stroking me so softly, so gently, it’s as if I’m delusional and none of this is really happening.
Then it hits me.
I’m dreaming.
It’s obviously much earlier than I thought. I must have slipped off to sleep.
It happens sometimes. These strangely erotic dreams. They’re never this vivid…but then again, I can hardly ever remember them when I wake. But I’m in one right now, aren’t I? Experiencing it right now.
And when you’re inside a dream, it’s all there is. It’s your entire world. So it feels just like real life, doesn’t it?
My legs aren’t trying to slam closed anymore. Instead of clamping my jaw shut, I open my lips and let Fyre in.
He growls deep in the back of his throat and shoves two fingers deep inside me.
I whimper against his mouth.
He exhales a warm breath over my face.
My hand travels down his hard stomach, then I tug at the button on his jeans. I can already feel the swell of his hard cock as I try to twist open the button, and as if to tease me with it, he steps closer and crushes his erection against my stomach.
He starts finger fucking me harder and harder. Filling me deeply, Fyre grinds the base of his palm against my clit. I gasp as my pussy clenches, sending tight waves of aching bliss through my core.
I lean into his thrusts, my hips rocking backward and forward. He keeps his lips on mine, fierce and demanding, as his fingers thrust harder and harder into me.
I climax before I’ve even had a chance to open his jeans.
He pulls away from me, and I can feel his eyes on me as I come undone under his touch.
But his face is in shadow. His form barely a silhouette.
He stands there, drawing out my orgasm with a skilled thumb on my clit, and watches me melt away to nothing.
Then he drags his fingers out of me and lifts a hand to his face. I can hear him sucking on his fingers.
Before I can gather myself, before I can make sense of anything, he grabs both my thighs and wrenches them open even further. Then he ducks down and sucks my clit between his lips, biting down so hard I let out a strangled scream.
My hands are in his hair, trying to yank him away, but he simply releases that tiny nub of tender flesh and instead licks the length of my slit with a warm, hard tongue before standing.
His hand is around my throat.
He pushes me back into the wall and stands there for a moment as if he’s going say something.
But he doesn’t.
He squeezes my throat once, hard, and then releases me.
I collapse to the floor, shaking, a sob dragging its way up my throat as he walks out of my apartment.
I should have known then that it wasn’t a dream, but instead of facing reality, I lie on the floor in a puddle of piss and drift away.
This time, I’m not sure I want to come back.
Chapter Eight
Charlotte
I stare down into my cup of coffee with disgust. It’s not the coffee’s fault—it’s the best cup I can produce in my apartment. It’s me.
I thought I was getting better. I thought I was improving.
I wasn’t.
I’m just as fucked up as the day I flagged down that couple’s car in the woods.
Maybe even more.
At least, before, I could convince myself that my strange urges, my almost obsessive interest in sex and fucking was just a phase I was going through. I never mentioned it to my counselor. I wouldn’t dare. As it was, they had me under psychiatric evaluation at the hospital when I tried to slit my wrists with a scalpel I dug out of a hazardous waste bin in the ER. I wasn’t going to give them any reasons to keep me there indefinitely.
I’m not a psycho.
I’m damaged.
There’s a difference.
I try a sip of coffee, but it coats my tongue like rancid oil. This is always what happens when I let the fantasy take control. When I lose myself to these new, horrifying urges.
I woke up still thinking it was a dream. Then I realized I was on the floor, the smell of urine and blood so strong in my nose I had to run to make it to the toilet in time to go puke.
Blood on my thighs. A faint line on my throat.
My knife is gone. That scares me more than anything. I have other knives, but I want to know if Peter kept it as a memento, or so that I have even less chance of defending myself the next time he visits me.
My stomach roils, and I gag before I can fight down the urge to vomit again.
How many of the dreams I’ve had the past few months were real? How many times has he been standing at the foot of my bed when I wake up groggy from the drugs, my primal instinct to survive desperate to push me out of my lethargy.
And failing.
I often woke up with dried streaks of my arousal in my underwear.
That happens in dreams too, doesn’t it?
I reach for my coffee again, determined to wash away the bitter taste of bile that remains. Despite the toothpaste, despite the fucking mouth wash. The cup pauses halfway to my mouth.
Eyes glued to the cup, I watch in fascination as the surface of the liquid trembles like there’s
