He dips his head in closer, his lips almost touching mine. His eyes dart across my face, scanning, searching my soul with fire in his depths of blue. He opens his mouth, his tongue half out. Then he says, “Yes, please.”
I answer him with a gentle caress of my tongue and he answers me by hiking up my nightgown and sliding his manly yet soft hand up the length of my stomach. The area between my legs is wet with want. The voices in my head are singing his praises. And the thud in my heart is full of love.
Damien crooks his fingers through each side of my underwear and slides them down. He smirks. “Are you ready to feel what you’ve been missing?”
“Yes,” I hiss, and as he climbs on top of me. I pull down his pants, arch my back, and allow myself to succumb to his every whim, with the first gentle thrust of his hips.
Hours later, we lie in each others arms. Glistening with sweat. Our breaths shallow. Our limbs still twitching from our lovemaking. Damien reaches over the side of the bed, grabbing his underwear and pants from the floor, slipping them on in a hurry. I watch him with sad eyes and whimper, “I don’t want you to leave.”
He presses his lips to mine, moving his mouth slowly, sensually, erotically. Then he pulls away. “Do you think I want to?”
“No,” I breathe, and trace the definition in his bicep with my finger. “It’s just been so long. And I feel like you just got here.”
“I know my love. I know.” He shifts and rises from the bed. I wrap the comforter around my naked body and escort him to the window. Kneeling in front of the sill, I can feel the tears pricking my eyes as he climbs out of the square opening and his feet thud against the ground. We’re face to face, our eyes hopelessly lost in one another’s. Damien brushes his lips against mine. “Two weeks,” he murmurs against my lips and backs away from the window, his hand cupped over his heart.
“Two weeks,” I repeat in a soft voice and blow him a kiss that he catches and places on his lips.
Then he turns on his heel, breaks out into a jog, and disappears into the night.
Chapter 27
~AFTER~
I’ve been staring at my fingertips for the last ten minutes.
I’ve been ignoring the person calling my name for the last three.
I saw it. I saw the blood on the tips of my fingers. First it was there, all red, thick, and sticky. Now it’s, poof —gone, like it evaporated into the air or something.
Or maybe I am imagining it. Maybe I’ve finally lost all of my marbles. Maybe this place has finally gotten to me.
“Adelaide?” Dr. Watson peers out the door of his office, his honey eyes radiant and smoldering. “Is something wrong? I’ve been calling for you. Are you ready for our session?”
I look over my shoulder at him then back at my fingers. “It was there,” I gasp, still baffled. “I saw it.”
“Saw it?” His voice goes up an octave. “What did you see, Adelaide?”
“The blood. There was blood on my fingers.”
Dr. Watson rushes out of his office, takes my hands in his, and begins to inspect me. “Did you hurt yourself?” He lifts my arm. “Did someone else hurt you?” There’s a hard edge to his voice.
“No,” I assure him. “No. When I touched…when I touched,” I stutter, trying to get the words out. “When I touched Damien I saw it. There was blood on my fingers.” Dr. Watson lets out a frustrated groan at the mention of Damien and I know that I shouldn’t have brought him up.
“Forget about Damien for now,” he says and guides me into his office.
My feet scuff against the floor and I lift my head as I sit. The metronome is already sitting on the front of his desk. “No,” I say, rising from my seat. Not this thing again. Not now. Not today. Not after I’ve just come to the conclusion that I might be losing my sanity.
“Sit down, Adelaide.” His tone is soft, his voice stern. “You’ve been off the barbiturates for some time now. I know that you remember what happened. You’re just blocking it out.”
I grit my teeth. “I don’t want to.”
Dr. Watson sits on the edge of his desk right next to the stupid instrument. I scowl at him and turn my head with a harrumph. “Addy, you have to do this.” I refuse to meet his gaze and shift uncomfortably in the plastic chair, shoving my hands underneath my legs. I think about saying, “No, I don’t,” but Dr. Watson continues, “Unless you prefer we use Dr. Morrow’s method of treatment.”
My mouth drops open and my head snaps to face him. “You wouldn’t.”
He shrugs casually and I gape at the way his broad shoulders rise. “I don’t want to,” he says, “but if you won’t cooperate with my methods of treatment, I don’t see any other options for you, my dear.”
“I can’t believe this!” I throw my hands up in the air, frustrated and upset. “I thought you were on my side!”