Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 91004 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91004 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
“Harder,” I plead, my hips rising up to meet his knife-like thrusts. “Don’t leave me. Take me harder.”
He does exactly that, each stroke ripping me open, and I scream with pain and twisted pleasure, with relief and sweet agony.
I scream as I die in his arms, and it’s the best death I can imagine.
* * *
I wake up with my sex slick and throbbing and my stomach churning with nausea. Out of all the tricks my brain’s been playing on me, these perverted dreams are the worst. I can understand the panic attacks and the paranoia—they’re a natural result of what I’ve been through—but there’s nothing natural about the sexual slant of these nightmares. Just thinking about them makes me physically ill with shame.
Getting up, I pull on a robe over my pajamas and go down to the kitchen. My breathing is unsteady and my heart is racing, but this time, it’s not from fear. I feel flushed and agitated, my body aching with frustrated arousal.
I almost came during that dream. Another few seconds, and I would’ve orgasmed—like I’ve orgasmed during these dreams twice before.
Self-disgust is a heavy brick in my stomach as I make my decaf tea. What kind of twisted person has sexual dreams about her husband’s killer? How messed up does one have to be to enjoy dying in said killer’s arms?
I’ve considered discussing this with Dr. Evans, but whenever I try to bring up the topic in our sessions, I shut down. I simply can’t bring myself to form the words. Verbalizing the dreams would give them substance, transforming them from a nebulous product of my sleeping subconscious to something I think and talk about when I’m awake, and I can’t have that.
In any case, I know what the therapist would tell me. He’d say that I’m a young, healthy woman who hasn’t had sex in a long time, and that it’s normal to feel those types of urges. That it’s my guilt and self-loathing that are transforming my sexual fantasies into something dark and twisted, and the dreams don’t mean I’m actually attracted to the man who tortured me and killed George.
Dr. Evans would try to alleviate my guilt and shame, and that’s not something I deserve.
When the tea is ready, I carry it over to the kitchen table and sit down. I’m about to take my first sip when I get the watched feeling again. Rationally, I know I’m alone, but my heart rate speeds up, and my palms dampen with sweat.
My pepper spray container is upstairs, so I get up and, as calmly as I can, make my way to the knife rack on the counter. I select the biggest, sharpest knife and bring it back to the table with me. I know it would be useless against someone like Peter Sokolov, but it’s better than nothing. After a few deep breaths, I calm down enough to drink my tea, but the unsettling sensation of invisible eyes persists.
If the house doesn’t sell soon, I’ll just move out, I decide as I go back to bed.
I can afford a second residence, and even a crappy studio would be preferable to this.
11
Sara
* * *
“So how did your Open House go yesterday?” Marsha shouts over the music as we wait for our fourth round of drinks at the bar.
“The realtor says it was good,” I shout back, trying not to slur my words. I haven’t done this in forever, and the alcohol is hitting me hard. “We’ll see if any offers come of it.”
“I can’t believe you own a house and are selling it,” Tonya says as the next song comes on and the music volume drops from deafening to merely loud. “I’d love to buy a house someday, but it’ll take forever to save up.”
“Yeah, if you spend half your paycheck on clothes and shoes,” Andy says with a grin, her red curls dancing as she sways her curvy hips in tune with the music. “Besides, Sara here is a doctor. She makes the big bucks, even if she doesn’t act as stuck up as the rest of them.”
Tonya giggles, her long earrings jiggling. “Oh, yeah, that’s right. You look so young, Sara, I keep forgetting you’re a real MD.”
“She is young,” Marsha says before I can respond. “She’s our own little Doogie Howser.”
“Oh, shut up.” I elbow Marsha, my cheeks flaming with embarrassment as I see the tattooed bartender grinning at me. He’s making our Lemon Drops with practiced motions, his brown gaze trained on me with unmistakable interest.
“Here you go, ladies,” he says, sliding our drinks over, and Andy winks at me as she hands me one of the glasses.
“Bottoms up,” she says, and we knock back the shots before going back to the dance floor, where the next song is already beginning to blast through the speakers.