Relief washes through me. “I’m just in the bath. I’ll be out soon.”
“Take your time.”
I finish my champagne and then I drain the tub before standing up. Grabbing a fluffy white towel, I wrap it around my body and glance at myself in the mirror. I’d removed my makeup before getting in, and my cheeks are rosy. My skin is still wet, and it glistens on my fading tan. My hair is pulled up into a sloppy high bun, but wet tendrils fall down the back of my neck—speaking of which, the makeup there had been removed, and the bruises are much more evident now than earlier today.
Polite but aloof.
I open the door and walk out into the living room area in just a towel. Dr. Kincaid is sitting on the couch with his computer on his lap. When he notices me, his lips part and his computer starts to slide off his lap—but he reaches out and snaps it shut, discarding it off to the side. He stands up and crosses his arms.
“You weren’t answering your phone, so I came back to make sure you were okay.” His eyes rove over my shoulder to where the standing ice bucket sits with a finished bottle of Laurent-Perrier. “But I now realize you’re fine.”
“Was I supposed to be doing something else when you ordered me to take the rest of the day off?”
He cocks his head, and I see his right hand squeeze his left bicep. “No, I suppose not.” His eyes drop down to my neck, and they go dark just as his face pales slightly. “Fuck, what happened to your neck?”
He’s so earnest about his concern that I almost believe him. And if it weren’t for the way his eyes blaze with something dauntless, I might begin to question just how lucid he is when he wakes from these dreams.
I shrug. “No idea. Maybe it’s the bed? I’m sore in other places, too, so I’m probably just sleeping in a weird position.” His eyes narrow the tiniest bit, and before he can respond, I walk to the bedroom. “I’m going to get ready. See you at six?” I ask, not waiting for an answer.
When I close my door, I smile and let out a heavy sigh.
Only one person can win this game, and it’s not going to be him.
The Devil Looks After His Own
Dante
Sitting idly on the couch,I fidget with the birth control ring in the pocket of my pants. Of course I walked around with it all day. How could I not? Even in my sleep, I knew what I was doing. My proclivities in real life bleed into my slumber, that’s for sure. Suppressing a smile, I imagine her discovering that I removed it. According to an internet search, the efficacy starts degrading almost immediately, and another backup method should be used after three hours.
She wanted to use a sperm bank to have a baby? The second she said that, I knew it would never happen.
Especially since I’d already had a taste of her, and knew that from that point forward, the only person she would ever consider having a baby with is me.
I’d asked my therapist once about my… obsession.
About how I had this fantasy of breeding Francesca—of filling her cunt with my seed. I’d never actually considered impregnating her until this trip, but now it’s all I can think about.
Toeing the edge of acceptable—flirting with danger—it’s all a turn-on for me.
Knowing she can’t use some random guy.
Knowing she hasme.
I’m still not sure if she’ll forgive me for what I’ve done to her, but she must know by now, right? If I were crossing a boundary, she’d tell me.
She’s not the type of woman who’d just take it lying down.
Ergo… she must want this, too.
Andfuck, I’m not sure how much longer I can keep this up, because I don’t rememberanythingfrom what happens between us.
Only the aftermath.
It’s killing me not knowing what it feels like to pump into her. What she looks like when she comes. How soft her skin is, or what her cunt tastes like. Every time I get whiffs of it or I think about it, my cock gets hard. But, of course, if I release the tension, so to speak, there’s less of a chance I can have her again.
It’s sick—I’msick. I know that.
But if I’m sick, what does that make her?
