55. Emily

55

EMILY

T here were two kinds of assholes in the world. The ones who threw their assholeness in your face and the ones who were good at hiding it. Right now, sitting on my bed with my arms crossed over my chest nearly four hours after receiving those cryptic messages back at the office, I was trying to decide which category Grant belonged in.

Then again, maybe I was the real asshole. Or, at the very least, the dumb ass .

It was the only logical explanation for having a long-standing death wish that seemed to go hand in hand with my clear lack of self-preservation. That or all this pent-up sexual frustration had tossed my brain cells into a blender and pressed the puree button a few times.

When I glanced at my antiquated analog clock that reminded me of my college days and realized it was teetering dangerously close to midnight, I turned off the lamp on the bedside table and curled up in my sheets with a huff. I had to be at work in a few hours and I refused to look like a zombie in the morning meeting. Another couple of minutes and I was drifting off into a painfully unsatisfied sleep.

You know that moment between consciousness and unconsciousness where you're still not quite sure if you're awake or dreaming? Where that hand reaching out to grab you might belong to the burglar who climbed into your window or a complete figment of your imagination?

As my lashes fluttered but refused to open, my limbs immobilized by sleep and my brain refusing to reboot, I could only hope it was the latter. It felt like a weight was sitting on my chest, pinning me between the mattress and a faint warmth. And then something was brushing along my throat, over my collarbone, circling around my nipple before trailing across the underside of my breast to my abdomen and lower.

I didn't know where the nightgown had gone but the slight breeze from the ceiling fan told me I was naked, as that same something was dipping inside me. Testing the waters and coming out drenched. I wanted to arch my back. Grind my hips and give into the sensation but nothing above the waist seemed to communicate with the rest of my body.

Sleep paralysis. I'd heard about it before and could only hope that was what I was experiencing. Then again, if this was all a dream, I wasn't sure I'd ever wanna wake up.

The mattress dipped and then I was being straddled, two thick trunks pinning each of my thighs from the outside. My arms grabbed and stretched high above my head. Not that I could will them to move anyway. A warm breath bristled next to my ear before the meat of my hips was gripped up, my knees forced down against the bedsheets and my legs butterflied open. And then I felt it. That familiar burn at the apex of my thighs, my body being split in two as the weight drove forward over and over again to a rhythm my nerve endings knew all too well.

It hit deep in my gut, pulling out and plunging in. Harder and faster. A rumbling sound vibrating against my cheek in time with heavy breaths. I could hear the headboard knocking against the wall and feel the chill in the air from the open window. Smell the distinct odor of mint tainted by cigarette smoke and taste a hint of cologne whenever it bristled against my lips. But still my eyelids wouldn't pry open, my limbs as deadened as the rest of me.

I told myself this was a fantasy. My brain's way of doing what the men in my life couldn't. Sucked in a lungful of air through my nose and relaxed my muscles. Enjoying the push and pull of flesh against flesh, the friction and sloshing of bodily fluid. Until my lower abdomen was tightening. My toes tingling and my pussy pulsing.

I was so close to getting what I needed. Climbing higher and higher. My breath hitching in my chest and that slight moan trapped in the back of my throat. And then…

I woke with a start, shooting up in bed while my eyes flicked around the empty room. My temples were throbbing and the sunlight streaming in from my closed window and open curtains had me reaching up and yanking at the blinds.

It took me a few minutes to orient myself to my surroundings. I knew it was a little after five in the morning—the blaring of my alarm told me as much. And I knew I was in my condo but everything else felt hazy. Like my head was in a fishbowl and I was seeing the world through a thick layer of glass.

I dipped a hand between my thighs. Pushed past the hem of my nightgown and hissed. Everything burned, and when I pulled my hand up again, my fingertips were tinged red, a viscous substance clinging to my skin when I pried the digits apart. Blood.

I wasn't usually so reckless when it came to forgetting my least favorite time of the month, but then again, work had been hectic. Maybe I was more of a mess than I thought I was. Which was saying something.

I forced my feet on the floor and my ass out of bed, tugging the stained sheets off the mattress and shoving them into the washer. I set it to the quick cycle and prayed that I'd remember to switch everything to the dryer before I rushed out the door for work. Then I made my way into the bathroom, each step more painful than the last, the cramping in my lower stomach unlike I ever felt it before. I turned the water as hot as it would go and stripped out of my nightgown, allowing the material to pool around my ankles. Kicked it aside and jumped into the shower stall.

All I needed was a gallon of coffee and a fistful of pain pills and I'd be good to go.