Chapter One
Daphne
Ican’t shake the feeling that I’m not alone.
That I’m being watched. That something is with me.
All the time. It has been this way for too long—years and years.
Although I don’t want the commitment of a pet, and I have no patience for a roommate, I have this undying feeling someone is here.
People write stories about things that bump in the night.
But, this isn’t that. It nags me like an achy tooth I can’t stop poking with my tongue every five minutes, until I finally taste blood.
It’s as present as the air I breathe. When my head hits the pillow at night, I’m cast into an endless pit of darkness—an unidentifiable void.
And it’s there. Waiting for me. Looking at me.
Smelling me. Tasting me. Consuming me. Some nights I hear screams. Suffering.
Tragedy. Other nights, it’s deafening silence, but for its frigid breath.
Then, when I awaken in the morning, it’s the chill woven into the fibers of my sheets.
Countless doctors have dismissed me as an unidentifiable form of crazy.
They all believed they could make it stop, so long as they find the right combination of pills to stuff down my throat.
They didn’t understand a thing. It wasn’t until recently that a psychiatrist, the one I hope will be my last, considered what I know is the truth.
The thing haunting me has little to do with my mind.
I worry I may have tarnished my relationship with him when I abruptly ran off during our last session.
I can’t do anything about that this second, but I’ll give him a call in the next few days to see if I can smooth things over.
Rolling out of bed moments before my alarm, today feels significant, though I’m not sure why. I’m another year older, which means my biological clock is soon to rust to the point of immobility, but I haven’t celebrated the day since I was a child. For me, it’s just another workday.
Forgoing my bathrobe, I walk directly to my bathroom.
There’s nothing special about the single vanity, toilet or shower.
However, when I catch the reflection of what should be my bright blue eyes under the cover of my long strawberry locks, I gasp.
Gone is my habitually moisturized skin, fake ‘til I make it smile and dazzling irises. For a brief second the ghoulish woman unflinchingly staring back at me is old, like on death’s door old, with crackly muted skin, rancid decaying teeth, and vacant grey eyes.
“Fuck,” I mutter.
Shaking my head and taking deep breaths, the illusion dissipates, and my features return in my reflection.
This sort of thing seems to be happening more and more.
I wish I knew how to make it stop, because I’ve had more than enough.
But all I can do is release a long exhale and step into the shower with the hope I can wash the tension away in scalding water.
Cold jets rain down for the first few seconds.
Sure, I could wait to get in when the water is more to my liking, but I find exhilaration in the moment when the jolt from the biting torrent is met by the sensation of the subsequent skin-melting streams. Soon thereafter, the anxiety and panic of five minutes ago subsided, swirling down the drain with the dust and grime of yesterday.
Today’s my birthday, and I can sense something big is coming.
I’ll see my gorgeous Adonis of a man tonight.
And if I’m interpreting my gut right, any day could be the one.
The big question. The diamond. The beginning of the rest of our lives together.
It could be wishful thinking, but he’s been hinting at our future for a while, and I can’t think of a better time to make my dreams come true.
It isn’t long before I start humming my favorite song while I lather from head to toe. Bursts of lavender fill my mind with thoughts of passion. The memory of rough hands brushing over my pores delivers an ironic shiver down my arms, and my bottom lip presses firmly between my teeth.
Losing myself in the distracted moment of morning ecstasy, I remember the first time I made love with the man I hope to marry.
My soulmate. The many passionate-kiss-filled nights leading up to the deed had my blood boiling before he picked me up for our date.
We took a nice ride out to the beach with the top down.
It’s where we had our first date. We found a secluded stretch of sand, and once the sun set, we were the only two people within sight of every direction.
It was something I always wanted to do. So, when the weather was perfect and the desire was right, we went for it.
Just thinking about it sends chills down my spine, despite the sweltering water crashing down my back.
He packed a small cooler with ice and goodies, and we had ourselves an intimate picnic under the stars amidst the crescendo of crashing waves.
We shared a dinner of chocolate covered strawberries and oysters on the half shell, while our palpable sexual tension churned the minutes away.
Cliché, I know, but it was perfect. I recall it so clearly it could have been yesterday. Reality, however, is it was an age ago.
We’ve been together for what now feels like forever.
Some days I wish I could go back—to relive the sensations of his nervous yet sensual touch for the first time.
But they’re fleeting. I find myself mimicking his touch beneath the torrid blasts of water.
I feel the ridges of his fingertips tracing my collarbone.
I melt as his breath catches when our eyes lock.
We were much younger then. Fumbling in the dark.
Hearts racing with possibility. Every brush of our skin felt electric—charged with potential.
I remember the intoxicating smell of his cologne, sweet tobacco and freshly tanned leather, mingling with the briny coastal air.
The warmth of his body contrasting with the damp beach sand.
He took his time with me. Kissing me. Caressing me.
Running his hands up and down my legs. Replicating his movements, I shudder while rubbing my bodywash over my thighs, and again, I’m dripping wet for him.
I could sense by through his trepidation he was as turned on as I was, but didn’t want to rush me.
Ironically, my focus quickly faltered under the growing tension in my core.
Any hopes of steadying my patience were gone the second he swept his hand by my clit in a tease.
My body trembled beneath him, and a devilish smile crept across his cheeks.
Then he did it again, but slower and harder.
And again, he reveled in my spasmodic reaction.
It wasn’t long before he snuck two fingers inside me, leaving his thumb to continue twirling.
Seeking more of his touch, my hips bucked involuntarily.
Obviously pleased with himself, he curled his fingers and jutted them to and fro, stroking the perfect spot while he circled my clit with maddening precision.
I bit down on my lip and grabbed my tits between ragged gasps.
Losing myself in the shower, my digits have neither the girth nor length of his. But holy fuck, my body’s tingling as mind wins over matter.
"Look at me," he commanded with a gruff whisper.
I forced myself to meet his intense gaze, where I found a raw hunger that nearly unraveled whatever was left of me.
Keeping constant eye contact, he lowered his head, replacing his thumb with his tongue.
The wet heat of his mouth sent shockwaves through my body as he licked my innocence away.
I writhed and moaned into the night air, heard only by him and a small flock of seagulls circling in the sky above.
The memory of his soft groan when he finally entered me has my legs quaking as I rub my clit, edging closer to an early morning release.
I slap my free hand against the wall to brace myself while thinking about how his body trembled trying to hold himself back, waiting for me to adjust. My legs hitched behind his, and pulled him deeper, desperate to feel every inch.
We moved together. Slowly at first. Savoring each sensation. His fingers intertwined with mine as he pressed my hands into the pillow above my head. My back arched to meet his thrusts, wanting more. Always more.
The tension built between us. A delicious ache spread through my core. I clung to him—my nails digging into his shoulders the more he quickened. His hips drove into me with urgency. I climbed higher and higher, reaching for release. His warm breath swarmed my neck.
"Come for me," he moaned through lips suckling the lobe of my ear.
His words ignite something primal within me the same today as it did then.
Throwing my head back, my face is met by the sweltering waterfall meant to wash me clean.
A hurricane of elation crashes through me, and a cry of pure pleasure lurches from my throat.
Desperate to prolong the sensation, my body searches for him, longing to clench my limbs around his waist, forcing two to become one.
But recognizing I’m alone and clinging to memories, the joy is suddenly sucked from my core. I need to get ready for work.
I swear, men have it so easy. They can turn the shower off, towel down and be running out the door to carry on with their day in a handful of minutes.
Meanwhile, I’m standing here with my hair wound and tucked into a small towel waiting for any excess moisture to be soaked into the microfibers, and a giant bath sheet wrapped around my torso like a Roman toga.
Sitting on my toilet with the lid down, I use a third hand towel to wipe the small beads of water from my legs, which I have conveniently propped on the edge of my tub.
Waiting for my body to dry, I squeeze dollops of flowery body cream into my palms before thoroughly massaging it into my exposed legs.
I can’t have dry skin and ashy knees on display when I’m planning to wear a short-cut white dress that’s more like a tailored suit coat, with a long slit up my left thigh and a sinched waist. Even on days when I wear pants, I need to keep my skin soft and fresh on the off chance someone will see me undressed.
My daily ritual to be presentable is rather ridiculous, as is the case for most women my age.
But on a day like today, when my hopes and dreams may come true, when I’m going out on an extravagant date with him, I spare no effort to look my absolute best. I’m sure I still won’t look half as good as him, but such is the life of being a woman.
It takes me an ungodly number of minutes to moisturize my face and slap on a basic layer of foundation I don’t hate. I had to dig a new compact out that’s been sitting in my drawer for—don’t even ask how long. It did the trick, but now my blush looks, well, horrible.
“Gah!” I shout at nothing.
Another ten minutes lapse before I move on to my eyeliner.
I wouldn’t normally put this much effort in for a random day at the office, but I know I won’t have time to do anything about my look before going out later.
It takes seven Q-tips, but I finally get the winged look I’m after.
Now I just need to apply mascara and lipstick, then make it through an entire day without ruining all the work I’ve put in.
Once my face is as good as it’s going to get, I scrub my hands clean before rubbing lotion into my cuticles and up my arms.
Unwrapping my hair, I reach for the blow dryer and flick it on.
The lights flicker off for a moment, and there’s a flash of distortion in the mirror.
I clutch my chest when I see that old hag staring out from my reflection again.
A second later, the lights snap back on, and everything is as it should be.
My hands tremble as I brush and blow my hair dry.
I really need this stuff to take the day off.
When my hair’s set, I wander back to my bedroom where I tug the top drawer of my dresser open and pull out what my mother would say is all I need.
If only.
I slip on a luxurious pair of white silk panties, last year’s limited edition, accentuated by thin lace along the hem.
But it’s only the base to an otherwise extensive self-presentation.
Next, I pull a thin white garter belt over my panties.
A set of ribbons with metal clasps dangle down from my hips as I glide a pair of white stockings up each leg, clipping each in place halfway up my thighs.
Stepping into the only heels I know will work with my outfit, I slide my arms through the cutoff shoulders of my dress and fasten the lone oversized button at the front. Then, turning to face my standing mirror, I pull my hands in to my stomach, and that’s when I feel it. A cramp.
“No,” I snap at my insides. “Absolutely not.” I don’t have time for that today.
Choosing to ignore what I’m hoping was gas or nerves, I glance at my alarm clock and see I’m about out of time.
Today has to be perfect, even if I have to will it into reality.
I whip my head back to look at the ensemble I’ve put together for the day and give myself the only words of encouragement I can conjure.
“You are one sexy bitch.”