Chapter 5 #2
And then, it all makes sense. He’s teasing me. Making me wait for him, and fuck if that doesn’t just align with everything he’s ever done.
“Please,” I call out. “I need you.”
Silence. My orgasm is building and building, but I can’t bring myself to slow my finger. Maybe he wants me to come first… maybe he’s waiting to catch me unawares in the afterglow.
The thought tips me over the edge, and I descend into swirling pleasure, a deeper, more satisfying depth than I’ve ever felt in real life.
I linger in my bliss, keeping my finger pressed down to prolong it for as long as possible.
I pulse, my walls clutching at nothing. Even though this is far more intense than I’ve ever had before, I can still feel that something is missing.
I’ve never been able to stimulate my clit and stick fingers inside myself at the same time, maybe my arms are too short or my belly is too round.
I should have grabbed a toy before I started, but I really thought…
I thought he’d join me… or I wouldn’t come.
Now that it’s over…my eyes dart around, searching for him at the edge of my vision… but there’s nothing. As Holly Jolly Christmas winds down, the voice of my speaker assaults me.
“It’s December 7th. The weather today will be sunny with a high of 34 degrees. There are no local alerts.”
It shifts to playing holiday-themed lofi, and I find that I can’t move. I squeeze my eyes shut, expecting to wake up. My heart, which had slowed in the aftermath of my searing orgasm, speeds up when I don’t. I pinch myself.
Nothing. Because I’m already awake.
This freaky holiday wake-up is real, and I seriously just got myself off imagining my nightmare.
Jesus Christ.
I must have changed the settings in the app.
I must have.
It’s the only explanation. Because the alternative?
That someone hacked into my app and changed them…
to scare me… I can’t even let myself truly think of it.
All at once, the idea that I am losing time, that I am doing things in my sleep is vastly preferable to the remote possibility that someone is doing this to me.
No, nope, nope, nope. I’m just so tired, so overworked, so entirely traumatized from my attack that it’s finally coming to a head. I need to see a therapist. All of this is totally treatable.
Normal therapists don’t try to root through their patients’ memories and try to implant things that never happened. It’s not going to happen again, and if it did, I’d know immediately. Sarah was a bad therapist. I know this. I do. My next therapist will be amazing. I’ll take the time and make sure.
I can go to therapy.
I can get better.
I am going to be fine.
“I am going to be fine!” I yell out the affirmation, using it to launch myself out of bed before the tears and hollowness growing in my chest can keep me trapped here.
Hours later, I’ve done my morning routine, given Henry lots of pets for both our benefit, and gotten all of my clients squared away for the day.
Am I staying busy to avoid thinking about everything? Absolutely. Still, the realization that I’m teetering on the edge of breakdown has been oddly comforting, because there are clear, actionable steps that I can take to fix my problem.
I haven’t taken any of them yet, but they are there.
I’m working through buying presents for my family when my phone dings with a notification.
My old phone number sent me another message.
(603)555-3327: You didn’t get your lights up yesterday. Do you need my help?
Wow. This person is such a dick. I’m so glad I’m fielding these messages for Person B because I can’t imagine how annoying Person A must be to them.
A: I’ll get them up when I have a chance.
I change the number in my phone to “Person A” and stick my tongue out at it. Hopefully I’ve bought Person B some time.
Person A: You need to get them up. It’s important.
A: K. Thanks.
Being snotty to them lifts my spirits further, because I’m doing a good deed and getting to be mean on someone else’s behalf.
I’m not good at sticking up for myself. If Person A was actually texting me, I’d be outside right now on a ladder and texting apologies.
But for Person B? I can stick up for them just fine.
I place a few orders before deciding that it’s the perfect time for an afternoon tea. I love making myself a cuppa and arranging little cookies on a plate and calling them biscuits. It makes me feel fancy, and I think it’s probably good to treat yourself to little things that make you happy.
I’m sure my future therapist—my normal, surely wonderful, future therapist—will agree.
Proud of myself for practicing self-care, I sashay into my kitchen and put the kettle on. Having a kettle is really important to my whole posh tea-time scenario, plus it heats up so much faster than you’d expect.
Out my kitchen window, the trees sway in a light breeze, a few stubborn leaves clinging to the maples and oaks. With how dry it’s been, they should crunch nicely under my feet; I should take a walk soon. The kettle starts bubbling, but it’s quickly followed by tires crunching on my gravel again.
What in the world? I definitely should not have any packages today. When I checked yesterday, the rest of my orders were a few days out. Please don’t tell me Tom is back to shovel my driveway. There’s no need for it, but that hasn’t stopped him yet.
“Computer, lights off!” I call, and huddle behind the counter.
Thankfully it's not Tom, but the package guy. He stomps onto my deck and leaves something… again. For a few tense seconds, I wait, muscles taut, as he drives away. The second he’s around the bend of my driveway, I creep through my house and snatch the package off my welcome mat.
The plastic envelope rips easily along the perforation, and I don’t even have the door shut when I fish around inside. Did they ship one ribbon separately, and I just missed it?
Inside, there’s a book, but what’s more… there’s a note, like you can do when you send gifts.
“Remember when you used to read? You used to love it.”
Sleepy Ada is going for the jugular, I see, because she’s reading me for filth. It’s true, I haven’t read in a bit. Nothing that I normally read has felt like a good idea with as stressed as I’ve been.
Ah yes, the perfect read for a girl who has debilitating panic attacks is a stalker romance—yeah, right. Sleepy Ada must disagree though, because that’s exactly what I pull out.
On the front of the book is a masked, shirtless guy.
This is a horrible idea. What the hell is Sleepy Ada thinking?
The hair of the dog, I guess…
I set the book down on my side table and curl up on the couch with my laptop to get back to work. Henry abandons the fireplace to curl up next to me, and I run my hands through his fur, telling myself that this is totally normal.
The entire time though, the book is just sitting there… taunting me.
After all, I did have that sexy dream and whatever the hell that fever dream this morning was…
And I used to love books like this.
And it’s worth a shot… right?
My hands shake when I pick it up, and my stomach feels like it’s trying to exit my body through any means necessary. Will it be vomit? Will it be diarrhea? Stay tuned and find out this week, because your guess is as good as mine.
The second I start reading, though, my living room fades away and I’m transported into the book.
Hours pass, and I finally come up for air when my stomach growls.
It’s dark, and I should have eaten hours ago, but the book has me in its grip.
I smile, because I haven’t thought about my own worries or anxieties for hours.
Sure, I’ve been anxious for the FMC in the book—I want to wring her neck because she has no idea that her hot neighbor is watching her all the time—but I haven’t been thinking about my own pervasive worries.
Maybe Sleepy Ada is on to something. I read until late in the night and catch myself nodding off, but each time I shake my head to plow through. After all, only nightmares await me in my dreams, and this is so much better.