Page 9 of Hunting Harbor
The last wave hits hard. I groan, slowing my pace as I empty myself, pulling back to find my cock covered in a mix of our come. So fucking beautiful, the mess we made. Dipping myfingers in her pussy, I smear some of us over her lips, pushing my fingers past her lips. Like the good girl she is, she sucks, her little nose scrunching up before she sighs and my fingers fall free.
Her eyes flutter beneath closed lids. My entire body aches to stay, to keep going until she's awake and begging for me. It's not time yet. Not time to break my silence or make her fully mine. Not yet.
I shove my cock back in my pants and zip up, shaky and sated.
She will be, though. Soon.
There's no stopping what I've put in motion.
There never was.
I pull the photo from my pocket. This was why I was here. Her birthday gift from me. The timing is perfect, my calling card against the black of her dresser. I'm almost jealous that it will be here to greet her instead of me. Almost. I return to her bedside, tucking the covers back around her, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "Sleep well," I whisper. Genuine. Tender. Unstoppable. My obsession swells.
Even now, she pulls me in, tempting me to ruin my own plans. To wake her and see the look in her eyes as she connects the dots. Her body calls to me, smooth and warm and begging for another taste. She shifts, breathing softly. I watch the rise and fall of her chest, the way her lashes flutter as if caught in adream. Now, I know what it looks like, to be loved by someone like me.
Surrender.
Chapter Four
Harbor
Mymindclickson,but the room around me is still fog. I blink, trying to clear the blurry sleep from behind my eyelids. Then a ceiling takes shape, a window, a blur of walls, as though they all waver on whether to appear. A crisp chill of wind stabs my cheeks and neck, and I see the window, definitely open. My mouth is salty. It tastes like ocean. It tastes like someone else. But even stranger than these little unpinned details is the inexplicable urge moving through me like electric fire, making my pussy throb.What is wrong with me? And why—despite this—does it feel so, so good?
I roll over in my bed, twisting the blankets into a limp and tangled mess. My sheets stick to me, glued and clammy.Weird, I don’t normally sweat so much.Outside, the world is pale gray, the hesitant light of morning just beginning to show through. Maybe I slept through the night for the first time in ages? Maybe I slept through the entire world ending? Or maybe it’s just my brain that feels like it has.
The more awake I become, the more I can’t shake the feeling that something is very wrong. Off. Lopsided. Uneven in a way I can’t quite piece together.
Like how I’m positive I closed the window last night.
And how there’s that strange taste.
And how there’s a smell in the air I don’t recognize, something like earth and sweat and someone else...
Reaching down, I touch between my legs. My fingers come away soaked.Did I have a wet dream? What the fuck is this?
I laugh out loud to myself. An unhinged laugh that makes the wrongness feel even worse. What if I’m finally losing it? What if I’m unraveling like an old sweater? That would make sense, right? That’s probably what’s happening.
The covers stick to my legs as I kick them off, little flashes of last night coming back to me now. Finishing another cup of mint tea, shutting down my laptop, climbing into bed, trying to dream myself somewhere else—anywhere else. Somewhere that the words come easily. But I must not have dreamed, because I feel heavy and jagged. Like maybe I barely slept at all...
I grope around in the fog of memory, but the pieces keep drifting away. I reach for more than I can hold, and that never works out, does it? I think about all those people they say went to bed and never woke up. That must be nice. I wonder what they’re dreaming about now.
There’s still the salty taste. Like… I can’t even describe it. Manly? A taste I’ve never woken up to before.
My eyes dart to the door, then to the window, then back to the door. Did someone—? Was someone—?
It’s okay, I think, I’m just losing it. Nothing I’m not used to. But I’m spiraling, I know it, and spiraling is worse than the window being open or the taste being salty or the smell being strange, right? This is what Lila says I do when I’m stressed. I make shit up. It’s the stress from my deadline. It has to be. That’s all this is. The same ole pattern. When I’m too inside my own head. But why do I keep thinking this feels different? Bigger than just the regular noise of my brain. Darker, somehow.
Like the end of the world.
Or the beginning.
I lift the sheets up, and that’s when I see it.
Why everything is sticking. Why it feels so damp.
I blink at the mess, the puddle of sweat and the tangle of sheets and... oh. The semi-dried come stain, coming off my skin in flakes, some of it still sticking to my thighs. Everything suspended mid-air. Little bursts of sensation everywhere at once. No idea where to look first.
This must be a dream.
