I can do this.
I give my nipples a hard little twist to make them point, even though the last thing I’m feeling right now is desire. More like dread. He’s going to know that as soon as he touches me and feels how dry I am. I think for a moment and then gather saliva in my mouth. When I have plenty, I coat my fingers and shove them into my panties to make myself wet. That’ll have to do. By the time he gets there, I’ll have him so hot and bothered that he won’t notice . . . or won’t care. Most men don’t care.
I quietly approach Daniel. He’s still sleeping, his breathing regular. His arms have fallen forward, no longer holding the blanket to his body, so I peel it back carefully, letting it pool at his feet. He’s wearing a belt and trousers. All right. I’ll have to rub him, get him good and aroused first, and then unbuckle him.
I kneel next to him and reach for his cock before hesitating. I need to make sure this goes smoothly. I stand up and tug my panties off, even though my mind screams for me to put them back on because panties are safe. Then I sit down and lightly place my hand on his chest, watching his face.
He stirs, but he doesn’t wake.
Gently, I rub my hand along his length, feeling it harden. A twinge of worry creeps over me because Daniel’s flaccid length is still pretty impressive. That’s going to hurt, but nothing to be done about it now. I cup my hand and continue to stroke it up and down his cock, as it grows and hardens under my ministrations.
He mumbles something and reaches for his cock, eyes closed—and finds my hand there. His fist closes around my wrist but he doesn’t move. His eyes snap open, and he gives me a vague, confused look. “…the fuck?” he mumbles, trying to sit up.
I lean in and press my mouth to his parted one, letting my tongue graze his lips. My hand remains on his cock and I push a hand on his shoulder, trying to force him back down on the couch. “I have a problem, Daniel,” I say in my sexiest voice as I keep rubbing his cock. I press my tits against his arm, too, and his girth swells thicker in my grip.
Suddenly the fog clears from his eyes. He jackknifes upright and tosses me aside, sending me reeling. “What the fuck are you doing?” he roars.
The realization of what I was just about to do—what I was doing—hits me. I’ve tried to use this man like everyone has used me. Like he was nothing.
Like he was just a body part.
Like I was just a body part.
I’m stricken with horror and I can’t pretend any longer. I struggle to my feet. “I’m sorry,” I manage to say at his forbidding stance, fists on hips, glaring at me like an angry god. “I think breakfast isn’t sitting well.”
I stumble away and barely make it to the bathroom before I puke everywhere.
Eight
Daniel
I DREAM OFTEN. TOO MUCH. Usually my dreams are about my sister, Naomi. I’m with her on vacation, and sometimes I save her from the kidnapping. But most of the time I’m left standing on the beach as the waves come up and take her out to sea, and I swim and I swim and call out her name but she never responds. When I try to turn toward the shore, my dad is standing there with my mother prostrate at his feet, so I turn around and dive back into the ocean. When I wake up, I’m gasping for breath.
Other times I dream of my missions when I was a sniper in Delta Force, lying in a ghillie suit in the sand with my spotter next to me. I’m shooting people regardless of their sex or age, like I’m in an arcade. I don’t know from my position who they are—and for my own sanity don’t want to know—I only know they are a danger to my brothers and I’m to kill them before they harm any members of my unit. After these dreams I wake up holding my breath, waiting to pull the trigger.
This dream is so different than all my other nighttime movies. In this dream Regan is telling me that the only way I can save her is to have sex with her. No doubt this dream is going to end as badly as all my other dreams, but I can’t figure out whether fucking her is swimming toward the shore or back into the ocean. She keeps saying that this will make it all right for her—that she’ll be healed by my dick. There’s something about it that I know is wrong, but the press of her body against mine drowns out all those concerns. It’s a pretty fucking good dream, and then…I wake up and realize it’s not a goddamn dream. That the fucked-up chick is stroking my cock, but her eyes are dead and I’m not into drilling corpses.
I stuff my stupid-ass hard cock into my pants and zip up. Even though I’m pissed as hell at her, I get her a glass of water.
Inside the bathroom I see Regan leaning over the toilet, her bare ass resting on her heels. She’s not just gagging. She’s crying and trying to retch out every ounce of her body. I kind of want to start vomiting right beside her. Half of me wants to scream at her until my throat is raw and the other half stupidly wants to pick her up and soothe her tears.
“Here’s a glass of water. We need to talk.”
She doesn’t acknowledge me. Her shoulders are heaving and every breath is labored. I place the glass on the sink, and my hand hovers over her head. Apparently the side that wants to comfort her is winning out. That’s probably my dick talking, so I clench my fingers into a fist and back out, closing the door quietly behind me.
The sounds of her sobs and dry heaves are muffled but still audible. Each reverberation of her grief is like a fucking needle into my skin. I grab my burner phone from the counter. She must have looked through it because it was in my jacket pocket. This morning I was dead tired from flying from Seattle to Russia down to Rio in three days followed by three more days of looking for Regan at Gomes’. I’ve had only a handful of hours of sleep, and this morning, after disposing of Gomes’ thug and buying Regan some clothes, I thought I could give in and rest a moment. We’d have a few hours before Gomes’ dead man would have to check in.