Page 31 of Inked & Bloodbound
His hands grip my hips, then slide up, moving over my waist and caressing me under my rib cage where my new tattoo is. When he makes contact, there’s no pain, no soreness, just a need for more.
His touch becomes rough as his palms cup my breasts from underneath. Firmly pulling my body against him as he slides a hand under my chin. He runs his thumb along my bottom lip as he tilts my head to the side.
I arch my back and let out a small moan, closing my eyes and pushing myself back against him, grinding against the pleasing hardness growing in the small of my back. The thrill of causing it makes my pulse race.
He murmurs in my ear, his voice soft and low, “Do you have a little darkness in you, Lily?” He traces my lips and dips his icy thumb into my mouth. “Maybe you’d like some?”
My tongue swirls around the pad of his thumb, tasting the salt of his skin as he continues. “I think you want me to fill you with my darkness. In fact, I think you’re desperate to feel it throbbing inside you.”
I nod, wordlessly, lost in the sensation of his hands, his voice, the way he makes me feel like every nerve in my body is crackling with electricity. Nothing else matters but this moment, this connection between us. I’m exactly where I belong.
My eyelids flutter open, and the light from the sky floods in, blinding me. The moon is gigantic—expanding in every directionand growing larger by the second. It hums and pulses with light, gliding forward like an unstoppable force. It’s going to hit us.
The crows all turn to us in unison. A warning.
“But…the moon…” I whisper.
“Shhh,” he soothes, hands sliding between my thighs. “We don’t have long. You’re going to wake up soon.”
“What do you?—”
The alarm jolts me awake, and I’m gasping, my heart pounding against my ribs. The sweat-soaked bedsheets are curled around my legs, and there’s a damp heat between my thighs.
“Jesus,” I mutter, reaching over to reach for my phone and hit the snooze button. I swing my legs over the side of the bed and try to grasp hold of reality, but the dream clings to me like perfume.
My cheeks burn at the fading feeling, and I run my hand over the base of my skull and stretch. Despite the ominous dream, for the first time in months, I feel…good. Really good. My head is clear, no throbbing pain behind my eyes, no pressure building at the base of my neck.
It’s like someone lifted a weight I didn’t even know I was carrying. That’s the thing about chronic pain. It creeps into your bones, slowly—insidiously—and begins to take root in your marrow. Then it blooms and twists itself viciously around your reality until you’re not sure where the pain ends and you begin. It takes away the joy and erodes your sense of self until you’re nothing but a husk.
Now it’s gone, even if it’s only temporary. There’s a space for hope to grow again.
I bring up Kate’s number and text her, asking if she wants to go for lunch, and she responds in about ten seconds, letting me know she’ll be there. Then, as I pad to the kitchen to brew a cup of coffee, I dial Pat’s number and brace for the guilt trip.
“Lilipad!” he coos, answering after two rings. “How are you, my darling? I’ve missed you ever so much!”
I tuck the phone between my shoulder and ear as I pour the piping-hot coffee into my favorite mug—the one with a pink crab holding maracas on it—and top it off with some creamer.
“Hey, Pattycake, nothing much. I’m just enjoying some time off. Having a cup of coffee, getting ready to see a friend for lunch. What about you?”
“Same old. I’m just out in the garden, harvesting a few tomatoes for your visit. Speaking of, when can I expect you?”
I check the kitchen window and check that there’s not a giant horny moon coming to destroy me, and take a little sip. “I’m thinking I’ll come tomorrow. Leave in the morning and get there for lunchtime if that’s still okay?”
“Of course, it is. I told you, drop in anytime.”
“You say that, but I always feel like I should give you notice,” I say, checking for a murder of crows. Thankfully, there’s only one balanced on the branch outside, and it could be my imagination, but I swear it’s looking right at me.
We talk for a while about nothing in particular. Pat tells me he has been propagating some succulents for me and asks me about work. Then he tells me about all the gigs he’s been to lately, explaining in great detail the musical styling of an all-female, middle-aged punk band he saw at a dive bar last week.
I love Pat more than any biological relative. Mom didn’t have any kind of relationship with her parents, so he’s all I’ve got, and he’s all I could ask for. Kind. Generous. Minimal guilt trips.
When we hang up, I start getting ready for lunch with Kate. I can’t wait to tell her about how the headaches have gone. I’ll obviously leave out the details about the witch and the mediumship and all the other stuff that will have her reaching for the number of a psychiatrist, but I do want her to hear about how much better I’m feeling.
All the love, stability and normalcy in my life is because of Pat and Kate. Without them, I’d be a wreck. There’s a stab of guilt when I think about how close Pat is, despite barely visiting. He’s getting older, and a two-hour drive is nothing. I should make the trip more.
Shit, my car.
It’s still parked on Sixth Street. I’d almost forgotten about that, and no doubt it’s covered in parking tickets by now. I’ll need to pass by on the way back from lunch and get it for the drive tomorrow. Ishould have plenty of time before Cassini comes again tonight for a session.