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I moan in protest when he withdraws, then returns with a vibrator that he places an inch from my clit, the reverberations a tease that slowly builds. Slick noises tell me he’s lubing his cock, and I twist to look over my shoulder, arching my arse into the air at the sight.

The head of him eases inside, and I tense.

“Relax, Freckles. Push back against me.”

I follow the instruction, burying my face in the pillow when it feels too much, panting until he withdraws. The next thrust is easier, the prep having done its job, the vibrations from the toy helping to keep me relaxed.

With his next thrust, there’s a pinch, then he’s further inside, the slowness of his movements driving me crazy.

“How’re you doing?”

“Good.” I turn my head aside. “I’m not going to break.”

His movements gain speed, and I didn’t think I was close, but in just a few minutes, I’m cresting the waves of pleasure again, arching my back to try to position the toy in the right place, Kincaid’s thrusts edging me for a few more minutes, before the crescendo builds, higher than before, the ragged gasps in my ear the best audible accompaniment as the strongest orgasm I’ve ever felt takes me in its fist and squeezes me till the very last drop.

My head spins as Kincaid chases his own release, the vibrator still humming between my legs. There’s a new burst of pressure, then he groans, arm tightening around me, his cock twitching until he carefully withdraws, taking away the toy and collapsing by my side, arms tender around me.

My head automatically snuggles into the shelter of his broad chest, hiding my smile, dopey and satisfied.

His fingers continue to stroke and play with my hair and it’s nice to be petted like a kitten. Treated like something precious rather than a disappointment.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” he mutters, untangling himself from me to roll onto his back, tugging his jeans and zipping them back into place, then holding me close again. “Are you okay?”

I giggle and it sounds like I’m drunk. “More than okay.”

The words are barely out of my mouth, when another noise joins them.

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

The phantom sound erupts in the walls, the ceiling, the floor—inside my head—and I tense, curling my knees to my chest, already trembling. I shove my hands over my ears, emitting small whimpers of terror as the entire house comes alive with the noise.

Kincaid stares, eyes wide with confusion. When he reaches for me, I roll away, too frightened for comfort.

“What’s wrong?” I have to read his lips because my hands block real sounds while not doing shit about the ones in my imagination. He gets to his feet, towering over me. “Talk to me.”

“It’s not real,” I say, not sure if it’s for his benefit or mine. Then I raise my voice, shouting, “You’re not real!”

The lights flicker off then on again, and I scream, closing my eyes, every muscle in my body pulling tight.

Then Kincaid’s strong arms are cradling me to his chest. I wrap my legs around his waist, clinging for dear life while he sprints from the house.

My fingers dig into his back, holding him so close it’s like I’m trying to climb inside him.

Terror still pulses through my veins, but his embrace soothes the worst of my panic. I nuzzle my head into the side of his neck, my empty sobs vibrating against his throat, too scared, too tired, too confused to weep tears, the release more like a stuttering scream.

“You’re okay,” he whispers into my ear, lips brushing against my lobe, his right hand shielding my head, the fingers so large, so thick, I calm in their cocoon of safety. “Shh, shh. You’re okay.”

And the tears finally come, spilling down my cheeks, mixing with snot and spit until his skin is wet, my terror draining with them to dribble down his throat, gathering in his collarbone.

He snuffles with laughter. “You really don’t like mice. Noted.”

The words take an age to penetrate through my panic. For my head to untangle enough to make sense of them.

Mice?

MICE!!!

My chest hitches, then releases enough for me to blurt, “You can hear the scratching, too?”