The heat begins low in my abdomen until my limbs grow heavy and a faint tremble takes hold. I close my eyes and allow the fantasy to shape itself, unspooling behind my lids like a memory that never was.
I see his hands first—those large, capable hands—moving up the length of my thighs with an urgency that borders on reverence, his fingertips grazing the softest parts of me as though he’s savoring what he’s about to claim. I imagine the weight of his body above mine, the press of his chest against my breasts, the rasp of his voice pitched low at my ear, saying my name in the dark like it’s the only word that’s ever mattered.
In my mind, he kneels between my legs, his gaze burning, his touch both worshipful and wild. His palms press my thighs apart with deliberate force, spreading me wide for him, and he stares like he’s starving, as though he’s been waiting for this moment forever.
My fingers trail lower until they find my aching pussy. I slip them inside, shallow at first, and then deeper, letting the slick pulse ripple through me as I close my eyes and imagine it’shim.
His cock, thick and hard, sliding in and out of me with each thrust. I match the rhythm to the image in my head, hips rising from the mattress, chasing the feeling of him moving inside me, claiming me.
His mouth captures mine roughly in the dark, his voice a low growl at my ear, my name torn from his throat between gritted teeth. He’s feral for me, unhinged with need, the way he was withherso many times.
Only now it’smebeneath him.
It builds quickly, the tension winding tighter with every stroke until I can feel the phantom weight of him bearing down, his body pinning me, stretching me open with the force of his desire.
And when I come, it’s not a scream that escapes, but a raw, soundless gasp. My body trembles with the force of the pleasure that crashes over me. My hips lift off the mattress and I clutch at the sheets, fingers twisted into the cotton like I can anchor myself, and make the fantasy last a little longer.
I stay like that for a while, heart fluttering beneath my ribs. The nightie clings to my warm and flushed skin. Eventually, I roll onto my side and brush his pillow with the back of my hand.
She might come home tomorrow. But tonight, this bed belongs to me.
Chapter 16
Amerie
Apparently, surviving a near-fatal hypoglycemic episode doesn’t come with a trophy. Just a needle in your arm and a husband who looks like he’s aged ten years from all the stress and worry.
Declan’s slumped in the chair beside my hospital bed. His head’s bowed and his hands are clasped together like he’s praying. He hasn’t shaved and his crumpled shirt is the same one he’d been wearing yesterday morning when he left for work.
There’s a takeout cup of coffee on the tray table that’s long gone cold, and a deli sandwich from the hospital cafeteria that only has a few bites taken out of it.
For a couple seconds, I wonder if I might be dreaming, but then the sting in my arm reminds me that I’m very much awake. I’m hooked up to an IV, among other machines set up to monitor me, some beeping every few seconds.
There’re wires taped to my chest and a pressure cuff wrapped around my bicep. I’m in a hospital gown and I can tell by the pale light filtering through the window that it’s early morning.
It’s the next day.
I didn’t just pass out for a few seconds like I’ve done in the past. It must’ve been a serious collapse for me to wind up in thehospital connected to machines, with Declan posted by my side like a faithful guard dog.
For me to pass out yesterday and wake up the next day…
The memories come slowly at first, then swoop in faster: the disorientation, the difficulty packing, the way I couldn’t seem to focus on anything no matter how many deep breaths I took. My hands had felt clumsy, my thoughts scattered, like I was wading through fog. At the time, I’d chalked it up to stress. The long to-do list and my blood sugar being slightly off like it could be on occasion. But nothing too unmanageable.
Nothing serious.
By the time I made it to the train station, it had escalated into something else entirely. I remember the cold sweat breaking across my back, the dizziness that made the platform tilt beneath my feet, the dryness in my mouth that no amount of water could fix. I remember reaching for something to steady myself, and the way my stomach flipped and everything turned blurry.
My fingers shook as I fumbled with my insulin pen and gave myself an injection that felt off. That only seemed to speed up how terrible I wasalreadyfeeling.
None of it made any sense.
Now, lying still under hospital sheets, I realize the truth I refused to admit to myself in the moment: I’d been off all day.
From the moment I got up and took my usual injection and ate breakfast. I was so used to powering through anyway that I ignored every red flag. I never saw it coming.
But that’s not even the most troubling part. Justwhywas my insulin suddenly trying to kill me?
The thought is still forming in my hazy mind when a sharp movement interrupts me.
