Page 94 of Exposed

The pain sears through me. These aren’t playful, sexual spanks. They are meant, they are punishment for a failing. They hurt.

But the pain at least is a distraction from other discomforts.

“Caleb!” I say it loudly.

“You’re going to come now.” Despite the whisky breath, the words are clear and lucid and not slurred.

I cannot. But I do not dare say this. Nor do I dare fake it as I do the moans. I am very bad at faking orgasm, I’ve learned. I am always caught out.

“Come, X. Come hard.”

“I—”

Upright now. Still behind me, the thrusts continue unabated. Fingers steal around my waist and between my thighs. It’s only a sizzle at first, but it’s something.

The fist in my hair tugs hard. Pulls my head back so I’m forced to stare at the ceiling. Whisky breath on my face, in my ear. “Come for me, X.”

The fingers at my core move swiftly, precisely, and lighting lances through me, hot and sudden. I do not have to fake it, thank god. The pleasure is a dull throb next to the anticipation of being released.

But I’m not released. The presence behind and within me pulls away, moves to sit at the edge of the bed. I remain kneeling, hunting for breath. My scalp tingles.

But I’m not done. A hard hand grips my wrist and tugs hard. Pulls me roughly across the mattress, shoves me to the floor, to my knees. Fingers curl into my chin-length hair. Guide me to the waiting member. Hard, but not completely.

“Finish me.”

I do as I am ordered. With my hands, with my mouth. It takes a long time. I am tired. So tired. My jaw aches. My forearms ache as well from constant up-and-down motion. When the release comes, it is much less forcefully than usual.

I am allowed to climb into my bed then. I curl up on the mattress, in the center, and a blanket settles over me.

I note the absence of footsteps, feel the presence beside me. Standing. Watching me.

I allow my body to go limp. Even my breathing. Let my mouth fall open. After many long minutes of pretending to sleep, I smell whisky, hear breathing. I am not entirely faking this descent into slumber anymore. I am nearly asleep now.

“Isabel.” This is whispered, so low it is nearly inaudible. “My lovely Isabel.” Sadness. Regret. Longing. Misery. The whisper is fraught with these things.

Who is Isabel?

Lips touch temple. Gently, so softly it could have been a whisper of air, a figment of my imagination. “It wasn’t supposed to be this way.”

What wasn’t?

“I’m so sorry. It wasn’t supposed to be this way.”

I am losing the battle to stay awake. I fight it. This close to sleep, nothing seems real. I am delirious with exhaustion. I am imagining this, surely. I’ve fallen asleep and I am dreaming. Surely. Surely.

The man I have come to understand over the past year would not speak thus, does not experience such emotions. It is a dream.

Just a dream.

Only a dream.

“Wake up, X.” The familiar rumble in my ear.

I blink. Open my eyes, and experience a debilitating disorientation. Am I awake? Am I dreaming, still?

Where am I?Whenam I?

I am in my room. My blackout curtains are in place. My noise machine shushes with the sound of soothing crashing waves. My bed. The door to my bedroom is cracked, emitting a sliver of light. Through it I can just barely make out a slice of my living room. My couch. The Louis XIV armchair, the coffee table with its antique map.