Wagging Feet

DONNA

Monday, July 8.

Ablink goes up, followed by a painful row of flutters. It's dim, but the sun's peeking through the curtains, streaking yellow hues over the linen while others sway over my head.

Head. Nothing is left of it—it's as if it was mowed to bits, my brain an authentic jam buffet. Buried in front of me is Fay, or a flow of golden hair leaking from under a pillow.What am I doing in her bed?

Arrsh, no more drinking for me. Not ever.

I remove the duvet and, lifting my two-ton head, exhale as I tuck it down. Everything's there. My crop top and my pants.

That Deon... He was... It's a good thing this party's behind me. It pretty much looked—tasted!—like a close call. Too close! I shut my eyes at the thought of it. I've always loved to flirt, and it's a good thing because that's as far as it goes.

I keep them shut a little longer. I can pretend so naturally; I can feign social behavior so effortlessly. I've been doing this for quite a while now. In all likelihood, there would be enough information to write a thesis about it. Not about the subject, but the subtopic: the monster in me.

There is this place no one will ever find. And in it, no matter how my body forgot the scars of abuse, a monster can't stop feeding on them. It can, it does. I don't know how to prevent it from stuffing itself. But it's in a place no one will ever find, and that's all that matters.

I press my palms against my eye sockets and tame a shudder. Hoarseness has set in, my body hurting in all places at once, my limbs too arid to move fluidly. Getting up, I?—

Shit, I'm spinning.

I drop down onto the bed, bile begging to come out.

Okay, shower.Standing once again, my head floods with lightning bolts.Fuck.

Heebie-jeebies whirl inside me, so I'm just going to move on my hands and knees. Yes, Donna, just crawl like an insect. It's just easier that way.

I aim for the bathroom, my strutting kneecaps wrestling with black clothes mounding at Fay's door.

I can't glue the last bits of the party back together in my mind, and there's something nerve-wracking about it.

Okay, time for a break.In the middle of the living room, I thank heavens no one can see the shambles I am in today. As my legs swizzle, my hands grip the walls to help me get up. It's like deep-cave exploration, but without the cave and nothing to explore...

Finally, after a painful three-meter trail in the corridor, I push the bathroom door and?—

"Ah!" I slam it, a vivid image of red abs, steam, and a massive cock haunting my eyes!

Behind the door, a coarse, deep voice jives through. "Morning, sunshine. Mind telling me where the towels are?"

"Deon," I breathe, resting my god-awful head against the closed door. "What are you doing?"

"I had a shower. I really gotta bounce, dove. So... towel?"

I turn on my heels, dreadfully regretting my spin, open the corridor's built-in cupboards, and pull a towel or five, the pile dripping onto the floor in my haste.

Despite my rude knock, he opens the door wide like I know the guy. "Borrowed some shower gel... nice vanilla," he says, cocking his head, a smile twinkling beyond the sass. He's just standing there, unashamed!

He tensely raises his dark sails and sounds a shiver of wind in them. Giving them a good shake, Deon sends some droplets over me. Those wings...

"Here!" Just as I'm about to tap the handle, a tail snakes around my working wrist and pulls me backward.

Spread over his dewing skin, I'm burning up in flames. "It's... Why are you doing this!?"

"Need some TLC," this chest groans tenaciously.

"TLC?" Liketender loving care?!

Gazing upward, I gape like a dying fish when two obsidian almonds hooded with thick, generous brows reach out to me. These crescent, a croon singing with them. "Mind helping me?"

He's got a reputation, Donna... Don't be deceived.

"For what?" I push myself, my hands kneading into his—hurts to think—very firm pecs.

"I can't remove one of my horn cuffs," he says, tilting his head toward me. "It's stuck."

I can't believe this. "Okay, maybe it's best if you kneel."

During this process, he brings his head down to my chest.Geez, the man is tall.

"You really didn't want to lose it. It's too far wedged in." It's not even twistable...

"Got some lube?"

"What?"

"Lube."

"For what?!"

"To lubricate my horn..."

I try not to slink my eyes down to his cock. Shit, this is embarrassing. "Let's try with soap."

"Soap, then." In his crouch, Deon leans back while holding himself with one hand, his ruby-glazed abs tensing before me like a platter of—fuck, he's ripe. He grabs a bottle of shower gel in the shower with the other far-reaching one. I'm lurking over his body with greater concentration than a passerby taken by morbid fascination.

I squint at the lines lacing his torso. Scars like train tracks run over his body. There are so many, and my chest thumps at them. "What happened, Deon?"

"What do you mean?" he puffs, his fingers struggling to grapple the bottle.

"Those scars... You're full of them."

"A gift from the war." His torso flexes, a bottle of Summer Vanilla Dews in his grasp.

I wonder which side he was on...

I look closer, urgently needing soap for my eyes. That... that is not a cock!

"Here you go, doll."

"Thanks."

Deon gathers himself and finds balance by clamping his hands around my waist, and I'm trying not to freeze.

I coat the horn with the shower gel and try turning and twisting the cuff, but it doesn't work.

"I think lube would work. Have some?"

"Yes," I admit. "Stay here."

I walk to my bedroom, my dignity stripping in half. I open my drawer, push my sex toy to the side, and grab the bottle of lube.

I come back and find not two, but three hard horns.

"The lube is for your horn," I state clearly.

"I know, but it's not my fault. Mornings are bitches, and you're not helping." He smiles, not even trying to hide this thing! It's like it's absolutely normal to flaunt his thick magic wand in front of me for grabs...

And then I hear, "Fay's thigh..."

A piece of the night immediately comes to mind. We were cramped around the kitchen island, with only a few guests slowly leaving. Fay went to the fridge for yogurt and, on her way back, hoisted herself back on the stool, and when her thigh slipped, four dots caught my attention. And apparently, Deon's as well. A bloody bite mark was redly present on her inner thigh.

From there on, there was this awkward silence between Deon and me.

"Yes," I say, slipping the ring off his horn.

"I'm temporarily moving in."

"Don't you think there's a need to ask permission first?"

"You're right." Deon rises, his smirk rasping, "Will you give me permission to stay?"

"Yes. But let's make things clear. You do not sleep with Fay nor me."

"Forget I asked, then..." He walks past me, and I'm just standing there, seemingly endless iced water pouring down my body. At least, that's the way it feels.

It was just for sex...

A firm hand snatches my arm, and I choke on my saliva as I'm swung out of the bathroom. Again, I'm plastered against thisdevil'schest, wings folding over me. "I'm just joking, little wolf. I'll sleep at the foot of your bed."

This tail again wrings around my jawline and something so nice, so wet, so soft sweeps across my tongue. "Or, if you allow, at your feet." His words snap through his lips so feverishly that the feet in question start wagging.

Fingers, perhaps mine, weave up his nape and into his messy hair. "At my feet," I crave out—I mean, brave out.

Brave out…