I didn't tell him about my fucked-up pain receptors or how my brain doesn’t process pain correctly. He didn’t need to know. It was my secret to wield, my power to keep. And watching his frustration build as I took more than anyone should be able to handle brought its own kind of satisfaction.
A twisted power play, but then, what isn't twisted about me?
Merci shifts in his sleep, mumbling something unintelligible. His shirt rides up, exposing a strip of pale skin above his waistband. My cock twitches, and I rub a hand through my hair, exhaling sharply, then force myself to turn away.
A shower should help, the scalding water washing forbidden desires down the drain into the sewer where they belong.
Once in my ensuite bathroom, I strip out of my clothes, tossing them into a pile on the bathroom floor. I catch my reflection in the mirror above the sink. Purple bruisescrisscross my ass and up the back of my thighs, angry and vivid against my skin. The welts are clean, the marks left by an expertly wielded cane.
I press my fingertips against one, hard, and wait.
Just a dull ache, muted like always. It’s disappointing. I want to feel, even pain, want to understand it like others do.
My gaze travels to my left arm, where a full sleeve of intricate tattoos stretches from my shoulder to my fingertips, concealing surgical scars. Aesthetics over damage. Easy to hide so coaches don’t ask questions.
Stepping into the shower, I crank the water as hot as it’ll go, the steam curling around me. My skin prickles, but it’s distant, like everything else. I close my eyes, letting the water stream down my back, trying to focus on my breathing like that therapist taught me years ago. In through the nose, out through the mouth.
Simple. Mechanical.
People think I can’t feel, that I don’t feel. Think I’m robotic or apathetic. Even psychotic.
Except I do feel.
I just can’t make sense of the emotions, can’t name them. So, I tend to avoid situations where I might have to confront them, or when that’s unavoidable, I use some of the strategies therapists have taught me.
Sure, I come across as clinical or overly logical. But the alternative is letting everyone know about my brain damage, and that’s not an option. Why should I have to tell people about my condition in order to explain or defend myself?
Like Coach Fucking Harper when he insinuated I don’t give a fuck about Viktor.
Nothing could be further from the truth.
I grab some body wash and scrub my skin, hoping to chase away the frustration. But then Merci comes to mind—smirking, defiant, infuriating. An emotion strikes, one I can recognize. I hate him, hate how he makes me feel things I don’t understand and can’t name.
Then my mind wanders back to Miami, to how beautiful he looked twisting up in the air, the desperate way he dry humped me in the private room, and to that bratty fucking mouth I wanted shove my cock into.
Fuck.
My hand trails down my abs, wrapping around my hardening length. I stroke myself, each pull firm and deliberate as I picture Merci on his knees, looking up at me with those big, lavender eyes. I can almost hear his breath hitching, feel the warmth of his mouth as he takes me in.
My grip tightens around my shaft as I pick up speed, the water from the showerhead pounding against my back,my breath coming faster. My hips buck forward into my fist, heat coiling in my lower belly as I imagine Merci's lips stretched around my girth, gagging on my length, tears streaming down his cheeks.
I reach down with my other hand, cupping my balls, rolling them between my fingers. "Fuck."
"Enjoying yourself?"
My eyes snap open and I spin around. Merci’s sitting on the sink vanity, legs crossed like he’s the picture of fucking casual. He’s wearing sleep shorts and an oversized T-shirt, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
"Get. Out." I pant, scrambling to pull back from the brink of orgasm.
“Nope.” He pops the “p” with a smirk. “This is my house too, remember? I can sit wherever I want.”
“Not in my fucking bathroom.”
“And I don’t like people watching me while I sleep. It’s creepy as fuck.”
My jaw clenches, nostrils flaring. “You obviously didn’t learn your lesson the last time. My bedroom is off limits.”
He shrugs, unbothered. “Any fucks I had flew out the window the moment you drugged and kidnapped me. So, you know, pot, kettle, and all that.”
