10. Olivia
Day 2
Ronan is in my bed.
A part of me is aware that this is a dream, but another overwhelming part of me wants to believe this is true—that this is happening.
I keep my eyes closed.
I don’t want him to leave.
I want him. This dream feels so real. His hard-pressed erection burns, grinding into one side of my hips.
It feels good.
It feels really good. It feels good to feel his hand move between my thighs, leaving goosebumps in its wake.
He keeps trailing his fingers on my upper thigh, and my stomach flips back and forth. My heart keeps spinning three hundred sixty degrees, and even though he is not doing anything more than dragging his fingers along my skin, every part of me burns under his touch.
I’m burning in need. I’m burning to soot. I’m burning like I do every single time I let myself think about what Ronan would do to my body as a grown man.
I’m burning, and it is my sex that gets to feel all the heaviness.
He doesn’t stop until he reaches my core, bare, wet, and swollen.
I clamp a hand against my mouth to keep me from screaming.
I can feel my body vibrating under his touch as he gathers some of the fabric of my robe to the side and then comes back to slip his fingers between my legs.
I part to allow him easy access, and he nibbles my earlobe before growling into my ear.
We are both affected. He is aware of what he is doing to me, I can tell by the extra force with which he grinds his erection against my hip.
I want to reach out and touch him,too.
Again, I don”t want to jinx this and give him any cause to quit, but I want to open up and feel him as he is doing.
I want him to follow through to the very end.
I sink my fingers into the mattress to crumple part of the sheets as a lifeline as his fingers brush, flicker, and sluggishly twirl on my clit.
He is about to give me a release, while chasing his.
I am close.
I can taste the euphoria of my release at the back of my throat. Just a little more stroking, and I will explode. Just a little more and every part of me will combust.
Oh, goodness me… Right there… I feel it closing in now. Just a little more, and I’m there. Just a little more. I lift my back off the bed, and his fingers press firmer on my clit.
He knows just what to do. He knows just where to touch me. He knows my body a little too much for someone who has been away for years. And my body responds to him as though it was woven for him and has been mastered by only him.
I am about to come.
Incessant hard bangs against the door clip everything to a stop, and my eyes fly open.
I knew it.
I‘m both frustrated from the fact that I didn’t get to have an orgasm and ashamed that I let my mind get weak to the point of seeing Ronan in my dream.
I knew it was a dream, but I wanted it to be true, badly.
This is what I get for being locked up, with nothing to do except confront my thoughts and myself.
The banging continues, and I swing my glare in its direction. It sounds like a bird beating against the glass but I wouldn’t be so sure because I can’t see anything.
I huff and drop my shaky hands on my sweaty forehead. I feel sick. I feel full. I feel heavy.
Not getting a release is making me feel cranky and frustrated, as if someone is running a needle through my pores.
I drag my swollen body up to a sitting position, and my sex clips, twitching.
It’s not fair that I feel like this when Ronan has it all under control.
He never showed up. I haven’t seen him since the night of the wedding. There has been no sign from him, not even a note.
Until proven innocent, it seems I will have to keep living like this.
I run my hands down my face and yawn some of my frustration out. I flip my eyes around the room, bored out of my mind and sure I will lose it pretty soon.
My eyes catch the sight of a new cart by the sofa in the room, and I spring from my bed to stand on my feet.
Someone came in here.
Was it Ronan?
Could that be the reason I was dreaming about him, because he was here?
I stretch to pull the cart closer and try not to stare at the cover to see my reflection.
My second day here.
That’s progress.
I made it through twenty-four hours without plucking my eyes out from boredom, so that’s something. Maybe that’s why I’m getting my favorite soup for a late breakfast as a reward.
I smile at the gazpacho served in a medium-sized gold bowl. My smile spreads across my face as I pick it up and scoot into the bed to rest my back against the headrest.
I missed this soup.
I haven’t made it in years and for a good reason.
I always looked forward to it every Sunday evening because my Abuela never failed to make me some. She never got taught me her secret recipe because she said she would only give it to me after I got married and gave her a grandchild.
She was so sure she would be around to witness that. I was so sure she would be too.
How could I have known that death would come for her so quickly, not even giving me a chance to say goodbye? Never giving me a chance at closure.
I miss her. I miss our little talks around our wooden kitchen island. I miss the scent of her homemade marinade. I miss the scent of her freshly made mixed spices. I miss how she always encouraged me to eat to my heart’s desire.
As the spicy mix of vegetables touches my tongue, it prickles with goodness.
Whoever made this meal is good. It is not as good as my Abuela’s but way better than any I have had the pleasure of trying out after her death.
Maybe I should do this when I leave this place. I should make this meal over and over until I find the missing secret ingredient and get it to taste the same way as she used to make it.
I should.
I should live a little more than I used to. I should do everything I never did because I let my focus narrow down to just my career. While I love what I do, I shouldn’t let it stop me from experiencing life as fully as I could. As fully as my granny would have wanted me to.
I scoop again, and this time, I’m humming, swinging my head from side to side as the soup evokes long-forgotten waves of laughter from Sunday evening dinners. I picture her wearing herfaded, stained apron, no matter how many times she washedit.
I can see her and see myself staring at her from across the kitchen island as I help out slicing the onions, sniffling from the assault, knowing without a pinch of a doubt that I want to do this for life. I want to cook, just like her.
I scoop again, and this time, I bless the hands that made the meal.
Delicious. Spicy. Just how she used to make it. I smile harder and scoop again.
It seems like I swallowed a bit too quickly because I immediately feel a burning sensation in my throat that spreads to my chest. I coughit out, give it a little time, and then carry on eating.
Still, the burn doesn”t go away, so I figure I should use the water glass on the cart.
I can”t stop coughing. My heart beats fast. With unsteady hands, I drink morewaterbefore it escapes my grasp, causing my vision to go blurry and my windpipe to close. This is not normal. There must be something wrong with the gazpacho.
“Help,” I shriek with all I’ve got, standing on wobbling legs to run to the door. “Ronan!” I holler. Ro…” I try to call out again, but my system slows, and I feel the disconnect between my organs and my brain.
I can’t move my mouth.
I can’t move my body.
I can’t…
I drop to the floor.