CELINE
Ilie in bed, sleep a long way off despite how busy my day has been. It’s two AM. I worked a late shift. I should collapse into an exhausted heap like I usually do.
But I can’t stop thinking about the kiss, his rough lips grinding against mine, his solid, firm body pressing against mine. He growled as our bodies rubbed together, as if he’s been waiting for this since the party a couple of years ago–as if he noticed me when I noticed him.
I remember the urgency in the kiss most of all. He grabbed me with solid hands, held me in place like letting go was the worst idea imaginable. Our bodies rubbed together, and already, we were sinking into a rhythm.
Then he stopped and stared at me, and I knew what he was thinking about…whohe was thinking about.
He knew it was wrong. I know it’s wrong, even now as my hand strays down my body and cautiously slips into my underwear. My belly tingles and my nub throbs as I relive the kiss over and over… and over…
I imagine him pushing me against the wall, his breath hot, his body as urgent as the kiss. I envision his dark eyes brimming with desire as he stares at me, his hand gripping my thigh, gliding up to my sex.
“We both know this is wrong. We both know we have to stop. But I can’t, Celine. I can’t stop until I taste you, until I feel you.”
I stroke my hand up and down my folds, shivering when I grind the heel of my palm against my clit, sparks pulsing through me, hissing heat spreading and refusing to stop… not that I want it to.
In the fantasy, we’re in bed. He stands at the edge of the bed, tearing off his shirt, showing me his muscular body. His eyes, somehow, are the bit that drives me the wildest: the way he stares, as though he’s never been more attracted to anyone.
When he lies atop me in this seriously messed-up dream—I know I’m being a traitor, a terrible sister, but I don’t stop—I almost lose it straight away. My hand grinds over my body, rubbing hard, the friction searing into me and making everything sting hotly.
His cock slides deeper into me. Suddenly, it’s not a fantasy anymore.
In the final few moments, I close my eyes so tight it almost hurts, my pulse loud in my ears, his breath hovering over my body. Real, too real. He thunders deep and groans,“You were fucking made for me.”
I gasp and throw my head back. The orgasm crashing into me with the force of a tidal wave. I twist and turn, tangled in the sheets, as wave after wave surges and swells.
When it’s over, I quickly remove my hand and stare at the ceiling.
That can never happen again. That’s the promise I can at least make to myself.
Already, though, I’m thinking about the next time I’ll sink into my new obsession.
Work is busy, no surprise there, which is why I’m so annoyed when Jackie interrupts my break. I’m in the breakroom, readingA Christmas Carol, wondering if I should buy some sticky notes so I can annotate it like Damian annotatedMoby Dick.
When my co-worker walks in. “Someone’s asking for you.”
I look up, the world blurry at the edges in that sleep-deprived way that working these long shifts forces on a girl. Jackie tilts her head. “Earth to Celine?”
“Who is it?” I ask.
“Some guy.” She shrugs. “Looks pretty serious. Seemed pretty keen to see you too. A boyfriend?”
She leaves before I can respond. I don’t do boyfriends, not since college, and even then, the relationships were sub-par and boring.Nothing like it would be with Damian, an annoying part of my psyche taunts.
Down, girl.
I walk through the hospital, going to the main desk. A little voice inside my head insists that it’s going to be Damian. He can’t take it anymore, staying away from me.
Jeez. I need to chill. I’m becoming like a moth to a flame, and I don’t like it.
At the main desk, I look around. No sign of Damian, obviously. There’s no sign of Julian either. I turn in a small circle, wondering if this is some kind of prank. I’ve only got thirteen minutes left on my break. When you work hours like mine, you get into the habit of counting every second.
A man approaches me. Wide, heavyset, bald head with a scar on it that looks like someone took a chip out of his skull. He wears a loose-fitting leather jacket that looks like it’s seen better days.
“Celine?” he says, with an unnerving smile on his lips. “Celine Moreau.”
Something about the way he says my name causes a spike of nerves to drive through me. He says it as if he wants me to know that he knows who I am.
