9. Down with the Sickness

"Urrrrgh, fuck," I groan, holding onto the back of the desk chair. Beads of sweat collect along my hairline, tickling my skin. I thought walking around would help ease the ache in my lower abdomen, but as I'm standing here hunched over, once again, that has proven false.

Throughout the night, I've tried consistently to read my book. Still, the sharp, stabbing pains in my stomach come on so unexpectedly and severely that I barely have time to insert my bookmark to keep my place. The book closes, losing my spot while I double over, holding my middle. The cramps undulate in ebbs and flows, causing nausea to follow and eventually dry heaving. The only experience I can compare it to is my period, but it's not. I'm not supposed to have my period for another two weeks. This is too soon. And it's too painful. I can barely stand. If I get a call, there's no way I'll be able to show up.

My hand shakes as I call Brandon. It only rings twice when he answers. "Monica? Is everything alright?" He sounds a bit out of breath.

There's some background noise on his end that I can't make out... Was that a moan? The sound is quickly interrupted by Brandon coughing obnoxiously and the loud bang of a door.

I gasp and bite my lip as another cramp seizes my gut. Regardless of what he has going on over there, I have to trudge on. "I'm so sorry. I feel awful calling you." My abdomen clinches again, and I groan through the pain. Quickly regaining my composure, I continue, "I'm not feeling so hot. I'm not sure I can go on the rest of the night like this. Is there any way you could come take over for me?"

"Absolutely! Is there anything you need? Anything I can bring you?" he asks as I lean over the chair, holding myself for comfort.

I honestly don't deserve his kindness.

"No, I'm good. If it gets any worse, I'll make a doctor's appointment for tomorrow and see if they can do anything."

"Okay, I'll be over in a few."

The line dies before I can even say goodbye. He must be in a hurry to get here. Did I interrupt him having sex? Was I on the phone with him while she lay there naked and disappointed? Will he kick his date out to come here? For me? Or was he at her house? Guilt coils tight around my gut, but it's overpowered by nausea and abdominal cramps.

Brandon arrives in about ten minutes. The front door chimes, announcing his arrival before he enters the morgue. He's wearing nice dark jeans, a white button-down shirt that's slightly wrinkled, and a thin black blazer to finish it off. He's dressed as if he was on a date or something, making me feel even worse for calling.

Straightening my posture and pushing my shoulders back, I greet him with my utmost sincerest apologies. "I'm so sorry for calling you. Were you on a date? I didn't know you were on a date. Or were you sleeping? I really need to hire another person so we can at least have someone as a backup."

I'm talking nonstop, trying to hide my discomfort while also trying to hold myself together. Acid coats my tongue, and I swallow hard, attempting to restrain myself from vomiting all over his dapper attire. Gingerly, he places his warm hands on my shoulders and carefully guides me to my attached apartment.

"You have nothing to worry about. I can nap on one of the cots and put the ringer on loud. Whatever comes in can be dealt with tomorrow," he assures, slowly trudging through my living room.

Shortly, we make it to my bed. Egor is jumping around and panting playfully. Once I'm tucked between the sheets, Brandon bends to scratch Egor behind the ears. "I'll take him out. As for the date, it was nothing. Don't worry about it," he says with an endearing smile as he straightens and grabs my duvet, pulling it over my shoulders.

I close my eyes, trying to calm my insides. There's water running and cabinets clanging as Brandon lumbers around my apartment for a while. He must be taking care of Egor for me. Maybe setting some food and water out for him. My mind is riding on an imaginary cloud as I try to breathe through the pain.

After a few moments of performing something probably similar to Lamaze, a sense of being watched comes over me. It's heavy, one of those weird things you just know is happening. I crack a lid, peeking into my room. I'm met with the white button-up shirt, blazer, and a set of bony hands. Standing beside my bed with an awkward stillness is Brandon with a glass. The ice within clinks against the sides like twinkling wind chimes as he places it on my bedside table. Then he moves my small trash can closer to my bed.

Before he leaves my room, I whisper, "Thank you."

That's all I can offer with the way I'm feeling because another wave of agony has me curling in on myself. I press my lips together to suppress a cry. This pain. It's awful.

When I finally wake,I'm covered in a cold sweat, but the nausea has subsided. Thank goodness for small favors. I ease out of bed. The cool air dries the moisture, coating my skin. I need a shower. The sense of being grimy and needing to wash takes precedence over everything at the moment.

After turning on the water, I remove all my clothing and sit to pee while I wait for it to heat up. My urethra burns as my stream is expelled into the bowl. I groan at the discomfort and make a mental note to get cranberry juice. When I wipe, my labia itches. I swipe a few times, but the feeling doesn't go away. I look down and notice I'm red.

Is it possible I got something from Johnny? Fuck, I didn't use a condom. Who thinks of using a condom with a dead person? Or rather, who thinks about needing a dead person? I'm debating whether or not to make an appointment since I'm no longer nauseous, but maybe this is worse than I thought.

I clamber into the shower and scrub that area really hard in the hopes it will help. It hurts to do so, but I don't let that stop me. Once I get out and check, it's redder and angrier than me for putting myself in this position.

"Ugh," I sigh, exasperated by my predicament. This is why you don't sleep with the dead, Moni.

But then I think about Johnny's chest and girthy cock and get aroused by just the thought of him inside me. I slap the sensitive skin of my inner thigh to subdue the low throb that's started to build again. I've heard that if you inflict pain upon yourself, it distracts you. I don't think I'm strong enough to be distracted from Johnny, though.

"Gah! Stop, you horny cunt," I yell at my crotch.

I need to make an appointment for the OBGYN. Hopefully, it's not too long of a wait to get in. I make the call and set it up for the same day. They are able to fit me in, which I'm seriously surprised about, and let Brandon know I'll be out again tonight.

I feel terrible about having him take over both of our shifts, but I never go to the doctor for anything. Maybe it's time I give in and put up a listing for another mortician to help in times like these.

After donning my usual hoodie and leggings, I get in my hearse—because I have no other ride—and drive to the doctor. I had barely enough energy to brush my hair, much less put on makeup. I appear ghastly, even more so than I usually do.

Pulling up to the gyno, I notice the sign has changed since the last time I was here. Which if I remember correctly, it's been a long time. I've never had sexual partners, so I saw no point in regular checkups.

When I pull in, only a few cars litter the parking lot, which is good. Fewer people will look at me sideways when they see me looking like the Grim Reaper's undertaker. Taking the concrete walkway toward the clinical brick building, I noticed the sign had changed a bit. However, it's been about three years since I last came here. Its name isn't just Sampson's Women's Health any longer. It's Sampson's and King's. He must've grown and needed to add another doctor to help with the load. Another indication that I need to do the same. And I will in time. I just need to come to terms with realizing I can't do this all by myself. Under the welcome sign on the double glass doors is a flier about the health of your clitoris. I'm busy reading the listed reasons you shouldn't stab it with needles when the door almost hits me in the face.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, I…" the older woman that shoved the door open, almost rearranging my face, begins to apologize until her gaze focuses over my shoulder. Her eyes widen in horror, so I turn to see what she's looking at. She squeals, "Who died?"

"That's mine," I admit, sheepishly.

Her lips pull back in a thin line, and her nose turns up in displeasure as she strides away with a huff. Well, kindly fuck you, too.

I open one of the doors and am greeted by the front desk receptionist. With a warm yet forced smile, she asks, "Yes. Can we help you?"

"Adams. I made an appointment for today."

With one penciled-in arched brow, she scrutinizes me, looking me up and down with judgemental eyes before glancing at her computer. I stand there with my arms crossed over my chest, slowly rubbing my biceps, trying to calm myself, waiting for her to find my name on the list. While she's taking her sweet time tapping away on her keyboard, I scan the waiting room. There are a few others in the seating area. One mother is scolding her children while another baby is being breastfed out in the open. I adjust my stance, cock my hip out and release a breath of annoyance. This lady is taking forever to find my name. Maybe this wasn't such a great idea after all. Perhaps I should've gone to another state and made an appointment where no one knew about me.

"You can have a seat, Ms. Adams. The nurse will call you back when they are ready for you," the receptionist announces dryly.

Her burgundy lipstick is rubbed off on her front teeth, which gives me some satisfaction. Stop, Monica, that's so rude, I mentally chide myself.I should let her know so she can remove it before others see it. I search for her name and catch the gleam of a brass tag.

"Ummm, Agnes, you have a little." I motion with my finger across my teeth, but she turns her nose up at me, and her lips curl in disgust, showing more of the burgundy on her fangs.

Alright, then. I tried to be helpful, I think as I glide through the small crowd of patients, making my way to the back for a seat. I end up finding one with scratchy blue cloth and metal legs. At least it's at a distance from the others in the waiting room, where there are no screaming children near me. No, thank you.

The table of magazines snatches my attention. Educational pamphlets on vulva health are splayed out in front of me. Happy, laughing couples set against the backdrop of trees and meadows. Happy about their healthy vaginas, I guess. It would be weird if they had STDs listed on the three-fold cardstock while looking so jolly as they spin around in front of a field of sunflowers.

A nurse peaks out her head from around the door leading to the back rooms, calling to the mom with the unruly kid. Thank god there's one less hollering semon demon in the vicinity. Time drags on as the number of waiting room inhabitants dwindles. Thankfully, the godawful cramps and nausea I was experiencing yesterday have pretty much subsided, but now my crotch is burning and itching. I'm all but giving the chair a lap dance with how I'm dragging my lady bits against it.

The pamphlet I'm reading over isn't doing me any favors for distraction, so I exchange it for one of the magazines on home decor with glossy, cheery pages. I breathe out a sigh from boredom until a torn piece of paper falls to the gray linoleum between my feet. I pick it up, preparing to place it back between the pages, when my fingers detect grooves dug into the cardstock I thought was merely trash. I turn it over, andthere's something written on it with a heavy hand.

Run.

"Adams," the nurse calls, her voice echoing off the walls in the now deserted waiting room. The unexpected noise causes my heart to jump into my throat, startling me. I ball the piece of paper in my palm and follow her toward the back, where the exam rooms are. She holds my chart close to her chest as she guides the way, then raises it to insert it into the plastic holder of exam room three.

"The doctor will be with you in a moment." The nurse turns to leave, but I stop her.

"Wait, aren't you going to ask me questions and take my vitals?"

"Not needed. We have your paperwork from when you were here three years ago. If anything has changed, you can let the doctor know," she quips before quickly scurrying back to her desk.

Do I smell bad? I sniff my pits discreetly, and I'm met with tones of apple and honey. Nope. No offensive odor. Leaving me outside the door, I awkwardly look around. What do I do now? This doesn't seem like protocol. She probably talked to the receptionist who saw my hearse in the parking lot. They don't want to be near the weird girl who grew up in a funeral home. I've always wondered if it's because I'm so close to death. Like maybe if they are around me for too long, then one of their family members will mysteriously die or something. I'm not sure what rumors people are spreading these days, but the conspiracies would give me the heebee-jeebees, too. Little do they know, I'm a goddamn delight.

After letting myself in, I throw the cryptic message in the waste bin and notice the thin disposable gown folded on the examination table. The nurse didn't say, but I'm assuming I should probably put that on. I honestly hate those things even though I know they serve a good purpose, but I'd rather wear my hoodie and just pull it up for the breast exam. Then, I could use the paper gown as a skirt for more coverage.

I've just removed my top when the door opens. What the fuck? I quickly flatten my hands over my breasts and glance over my shoulder. A young, hot-as-sin doctor stands in the doorway. His hand is still wrapped around the knob, and his eyes are wide with shock.

"I'm sorry, they told me you were ready." He takes a step back and closes the door, but his shadow remains at the bottom of the doorway.

Once I'm finished, wrapped in the tissue paper gown and sitting on the end of the table, I yell, "Ready."

The doctor steps in, making the room shrink from his domineering presence. I'm instantly not prepared for this fine-ass man to probe my raging fire crotch. He's handsome and almost familiar in a way, but I can't quite pinpoint it. This man is so handsome. I'm fairly certain I would have remembered him. Perhaps he was an attendee of a funeral Brandon conducted? I don't know, but I know after this, I'm not going to be able to forget him.

He tilts his head at me. "Is everything okay?" he asks, clashing with my thoughts.

Crap! I was staring. Instantly, I'm mortified and tuck my fingertips beneath my thighs to push my legs closer together. As if that will help me when the time comes. I clear my throat and attempt to string together a coherent sentence. "Oh, um… yeah. Sorry. Just. Um. You look… ah, never mind."

"Okayyyy. Let's get started." He has the chart the nurse placed on my door, and he's flipping through the pages. "So it looks like you made the appointment because you were having severe abdominal pain, Mrs. Adam's? Is that something new for you? Since it doesn't look like you come here very often."

"That sounds like a bad pick-up line," I blurt and quickly cover my mouth. I close my eyes for a moment, hoping I'm just dreaming. This can't be real. When I open them, I'll be in my bed. I crack one eye open, peeking out through my lashes. Nope, not a dream. He's still standing there in all his mouth-watering sex appeal. Removing my hand and returning it beneath my thigh, I try to smooth over my blunder. "Oh, so sorry. I have no filter when I'm nervous. The pain has pretty much subsided, but I have this… rash."

His professional facade cracks slightly, and his lips quirks up on the side. "What's there to be nervous about?"

He has a calmness about him, and yet there's also a hint of electricity as if a storm were rolling in. His presence is almost intimidating. The light green of his eyes pierce me like a lightning bolt, causing heat to snake up my neck and face. I lick my lips, thinking of what to say besides: You're about to look at my pussy that possibly has a disease from fucking a dead man in the morgue, but hopefully, you'll think it's from switching laundry detergent. Also, you look fine as hell, but nothing comes out of my mouth.

He shakes his head and chuckles at my lack of verbal response as if sensing my vocal cords are paralyzed. "Lie back and relax. You have nothing to worry about."

I do as ordered and stare at the squares that make up the drop ceiling. I begin to count them, taking in deep, even breaths as the screech of metal on metal tears through the air as he pulls out the stirrups.

"Okay, feet up," he commands, and I obey. My knees have a mind of their own and won't come unglued from each other. He gives me another order in a deep, calming voice, "Relax your knees. You can trust me. I'm a doctor."

Another two inhales pass before I finally allow them to drift open.

"Good, girl," he praises, snapping on his blue gloves.

A flock of birds excitedly flap their wings in my abdomen at his comment, but I try to ignore it. I'm only doing as he asked. He's not about to start domming me in the middle of his exam room. Get it together, I chide myself. My focus is back on the tiles. I count them from across and down, then row by row. A cool liquid touches my inner labia, causing me to jump.

"My apologies. I should've given you a warning." He's closer than I realize, and I'm fairly certain I smell alcohol waft off his breath. Like the scent of liquor, his words cut through my senses, sweet at first but burning as it sinks in as if he never intended to give me a heads-up.

"That's okay," I say, meekly. My voice is quiet, nearly inaudible even to my own ears.

His fingers explore me, running along my outer and inner lips a few times. It causes me to shiver and my vaginal walls to clench. For some reason, I don't think this is standard practice.

"How does that feel? Good?" He asks in a low, gravelly voice.

"Ummm," I hum because I don't know how to answer that question.

Does he mean sexually? Or is he asking if what he is doing is hurting me?

"Yes, I can see irritation. I just want to make sure I'm not hurting you." Ah, good. I'm so high-strung and nervous about physical contact that, apparently, he can read my mind like a book.

"Oh, yeah. I was hoping I could take a pill or something, and it would just go away."

Then a current of electricity sizzles through my body as one of his digits brushes against my aching clit. The spark zings straight to my core, stealing my breath. Is this a normal reaction to being touched down there? I mean, Dr. Sampson has given me a pap smear, and I know it's been a while, but this seems different. I've never had an appointment with his partner, Dr. King. The only reason Dr. Sampson isn't seeing me now is because he didn't have any openings on such short notice. So maybe this is just Dr. King's style? Regardless, I've never been touched this way.

"Maybe. I'll finish my examination and take a few samples for testing to be sure."

His fingers continue exploring my lips, fingers gliding up and down, in and out, giving them a lot of attention. It's almost soothing. But then he plunges them inside of me. It takes me by surprise, and I clench around him. I bite down on the inside of my cheek. God, I hope he didn't feel that. I blink rapidly at the ceiling, trying to keep my bent legs from trembling.

He pushes up inside me, crooking his digits at a vertical angle. He brings his other hand around to press down on my paper gown-covered abdomen. That added external pressure creates a new sensation I didn't know was possible. The intense force explodes through me from my core. A throaty groan claws its way from my mouth, unrestrained and raw. I immediately clamp my lips tight in a strained line to keep any more unwanted sounds from escaping. Please tell me I didn't just make a sex noise in my doctor's office.

Unperturbed, he continues his ministrations, "Is that okay?" He asks as he methodically pushes and pulls his strong fingers within me. Surely, he can tell by the amount I'm leaking that this is anything but okay.

I nod vigorously, hoping he can see over the tent of my spread legs. I can't unseal my mouth for fear of what might escape if I try to speak. I blink my tears of uncertainty back as I train my gaze on the ceiling. The cream-colored tiles blur into one, making them hard to count. Instead, I breathe in deeply through my nose, trying to get myself under control.

"Does that feel okay?" He asks again as he repeats the motion over and over.

This time, he peeks over my paper dress. I return his gaze to see he's examining my face. Seriously, he looks familiar, but I'd remember those eyes that are a lighter green than arsenic. He must've not noticed my nod and needed to check to make sure my face wasn't scrunched in pain. It's a bit of a struggle, but I'm able to pry my lips apart. Just as I'm about to verbalize my answer, he angles his fingers up, and my traitorous body defies me. A loud moan slips from my vocal cords, and I quickly clamp my hand over my mouth. My face and neck heat with obvious embarrassment. Oh, fuck!

"All good," I squeak.

My eyes must be playing tricks on me. I swear I saw the corner of his lip twitch with a smirk. It was only for the briefest of moments before he regained his professional composure.

"Alright, Miss Adams." He takes a small step back and sighs. "Now it's time to get samples. This may be a bit uncomfortable," he says as he leans to retrieve the speculum from the stainless steel tray.

Uncomfortable? That word makes me want to laugh. This whole experience has been uncomfortable. I don't know how it could get worse.

Cold metal presses against my entrance. More of the chilly lube slides down to my asshole. I shiver involuntarily right before he cranks the device, widening me for his viewing pleasure. Tension from being stretched causes my knees to drift together, but Dr. King places a hand on each inner thigh, forcing them apart. A trail of warmth from where he touched me remains, and goosebumps spring up along the heated path. A war rages inside of me as bullets fly from my brain to my body. My brain tells me to run while my body tells me I've been seeking this sensual touch. A huge part of me doesn't want to admit that I… yearn for more.

The air conditioner kicks in through a nearby vent, causing a loud whoosh. The noise infiltrates the somewhat quiet space. Dr. King is probing my cervix while I'm overanalyzing everything in the room to take my mind off the fact he is face to face with my vagina. So does that make it a ‘face to vagina'?

"You've been a filthy fucking slut, haven't you?"

The cool breeze hits my naked thighs, and I-

Wait. What?

Did he just say that? I could be wrong since I can't see his face, thanks to the paper gown acting as a curtain, which hopefully blocks any signs of being completely mortified. The words, real or imagined, cause my scalp to tingle and my clit to pulse.

If he said the words I think he did, why is my body acting this way? They should feel wrong, but instead, I'm living for them. There are a lot of immoral things I seem to be embracing lately, but shouldn't I draw the line somewhere? And why would I think him saying dirty things to me should be where I draw my arbitrary line in the sand? Is it because if I don't call him out, then somehow that could lead him to my other persuasion, which is illegal? My mind is on a tangent connecting the dots, thinking all roads lead to me being dragged away in handcuffs. It's an irrational train of thought, and I need to ask him and clarify, or this whirlwind of ideas will never stop.

"What was that doctor?" I tentatively ask, scared of the answer.

"Just grabbing a few samples. This will be all over soon," he enunciates clearly, and the tension I didn't realize I was holding in my shoulders eases into submission.

He grabs a few cotton-tipped applicators off the tray beside him. I feel a little poking and prodding inside my womb then, before I know it, it's over. Am I sad it's over? Yes, more so than I should be. I wish he would examine me further and hit that spot over and over again but with more than just his fingers. The thought of it, though, makes my insides jitter with nervousness, so I push those dirty thoughts from my mind. Desire almost has me forgetting that illegal and immoral activities have led me to this office. I should be more concerned about him deciding to run out of here to call the cops.

"All done," he announces. The sound of latex snapping pierces the air as I see a discarded glove thrown into a nearby garbage.

My body jerks at that sound. It shouldn't bother me. Hell, I do it all the time, but my brain is on a runaway train with all the different scenarios racing through my head. Swinging my legs off the stirrups, I sit up, allowing my feet to dangle. Dr. King's gaze feels as if it's burning a hole into the table where my thighs are slightly parted. After being in the hot seat long enough, I bring my knees together and lock my fingers beneath them. Once again, I'm assuming the position I was in when he entered, and not counting the one when he walked in on me undressing.

He averts his eyes and reaches into the pocket of his white coat, pulling out a pad and pen. His pen scratches as he writes something on the paper then rips it off with a flourish, and hands it to me. I almost expect a Ta-da with the handoff.

"Use it twice a day. You should see results in twenty-four hours. If not, you can always come again."

I grasp the stiff piece of paper between my fingers as he hastily pivots on his heel and turns toward the door, barely getting it open before he disappears behind it. He left so fast that I think I saw a cloud of dust in his wake. That's a bit dramatic, but I do feel ashamed of those noises that came out of me while in front of another person, especially since that person is my doctor.

My eyes linger on the closed door for a moment, lost in thought and mortification. Then, I draw my gaze to the prescription. Four words are written in small, concise handwriting in black ink.

Quit fucking the dead.

I lurch forward, my hand grappling for purchase on the edges of the exam table otherwise, my naked ass will be on the floor two days in a row. The blood flowing through my veins turns into an icy sludge. My lungs immediately fill with wet cement. Is this real? Could he be off to call the cops right now? My world shifts slightly, and I take a few deep breaths to steady myself.

It's okay. It's all going to be okay. This isn't real.

I say it more to convince myself. Then, the frost in my blood melts, and the roaring fire within me burns bright. The paper in my hand quickly crumbles in my grasp. He knows.

I should be defensive. Yeah, hold onto that anger. I can't let him think this is factual. That his suspicions aren't true even though they very much are. I quickly dress and march out of the examination room with the balled-up paper in hand.

His office is easy to find. The door holds a gold placard with KING engraved on it. I grasp the knob for a few seconds, taking in a deep breath, preparing to lay into this guy. Nurses are murmuring off in the distance, but I can't see anyone. No one is around to stop me. So I turn the knob, step in, and close the door behind me, only to be met with the unexpected.

Doctor King seems unaware of my presence and shows no signs of hearing me. He's leaning back in his desk chair. Deep, throaty groans fill the room. His eyes are closed, and his dick peeks just over his desk. He's jerking off in his office. I stand there, frozen in place. Did I open the door to an alternative universe? Is my mind playing tricks on me?...and is that a piercing on his dick?

My attention gets snared by the beads of precum that glisten on the big, ruddy head of his cock, and my mouth waters. The light glints on the rings when he runs his fist up and down his shaft. He pays special attention to the ridge of his tip where he rubs in his arousal then he's thrusting up into his palm again. With each slide of his fist, more and more of my anger dissipates like smoke in a hurricane. His jaw flexes every time he reaches the ring around his glands, replacing my madness with a hard throbbing between my thighs. After a few quicker strokes, he finishes in his hand with a moan of pleasure, throwing his head back, and I revel in his display of the pure ecstasy of his post-orgasm. It's fascinating to see a man completely come undone right in front of you.

The sight rips an unadulterated sob of pleasure from my lips. His eyes slam open and land on mine. I shut my mouth, not realizing it had been hanging open. My cheeks and neck heat with embarrassment and desire before briskly being drenched with the ice-cold water of shame. I quickly turn and face the closed door.

"Oh my god, I am so sorry," I blurt in a panic. My hands are frozen at my sides, and I can't lift them to open the door and make my escape.

Could this day get any more awkward?

The squeak of his chair wheels rolling on the hardwood floor fills the room. He doesn't say a word, but I can tell he is coming near me by the crescendo of his footsteps, the sound bouncing around the nearly bare room. A large hand smacks against the wall next to my head. It's the same hand he had been jerking his cock with. I know because his seed glistens on the web of skin between his thumb and pointer fingers. He didn't even clean himself off, and there's probably more I can't see from this angle. I side-eye it, unsure if I should turn around, but before I can, he presses his front to my back, and his warm breath fans along my ear.

"Was my finger not enough for you that you had to barge into my office looking for another orgasm?"

Hold on! Is his dick hanging out and rubbing against my ass? I suck in a sharp breath. The audacity of this man. I muster up my courage, bare dick or not, and turn. He's so close my nose grazes his.

"No," I deny, indignant. "I came here for this." I hold up the crumpled piece of paper to the side, where it can be seen in his peripheral. "How could you write something like that?" I seethe, having to force my distaste after the scene I just encountered. I won't deny it will be burned in my memory forever and used for future inspiration.

Taking a step back, he pulls the script from my grasp and unfurls it. "Would you like me to write something else?" A smirk plays on his lips. "Something degrading? It seems to get you wet when I tell you what a filthy fucking slut you are."

My jaw drops at his words. I knew I wasn't imagining it! I shouldn't have second-guessed myself. He took advantage, but I can't deny that I secretly loved it. He doesn't need to know that, though. I hastily close my mouth. I need to compose myself. Honing false anger, I feed those embers sparking beneath the surface, willing those flames to come back and give me strength. I must tell this man off for his absurd behavior and not succumb to temptation.

He tilts his handsome face close, his warm breath grazing my jawline. His action steals the oxygen from my lungs. This can't be real.

He brings his thumb to my mouth, rubs his cum on my bottom lip like gloss, and uses his other hand to push against my hip. His salty flavor hits my tongue, and I don't hate it, but also, what the fuck is happening? I'm pressed against the door, and he's making me feel like he's attempting to trap me like an animal.

I won't let him cage me. I can't give this sick fuck a chance. I grab hold of the knob behind my back and twist. I stumble, stepping out of his hold.

"You're despicable." I spit in his face.

Wiping it from his chin, he never breaks eye contact with me. "Are we sure I'm the sick one in this scenario?" His green eyes pierce through me, holding me in place. Then, with deliberate intention, he sticks out his thick pink tongue, flattens it against his palm, and licks off my saliva.

I don't focus on his words. My attention is caught by the wicked smile he produces after putting his tongue back in his mouth. All I want is for him to do the same to my slit, which is tingling with need.

Holding onto my denial, I seethe, "Keep your hands off of me, creep." Then I do the same thing I've done many times before when a warm-blooded man gets too close to me. I run.

I run even though I very much want the debauchery promised in his gaze. I want him to take me. My feet act faster than my brain when it comes to fight or flight. Flight is always my go-to. It's always the safest. Besides, the dead are safer to be around than the living.