He laughs in a way that I don’t like, and his legs curl around mine, squeezing—but then they release.
“You look so beautiful. So sweet. I want you for myself.”
Well, dream-me doesn’t have a boyfriend. No version of me has a boyfriend. “Thank you,” I whisper, wondering why I’m so exhausted and feel so sleepy if I’m actually asleep.
I don’t get to wonder about that for long as Lucius’ gorgeous face presses to mine and our lips lock. Something hard yet flexible presses between my legs.
I DON’T PUSH INSIDEof her, not even to the bare, damp space between her legs. I stay on the outside, thick phallic tentacle inviting her to rock her hips against me as we kiss. I want to do more, but I can’t. This world leaves me weak, and her scent intoxicates me while the taste of her lips drowns me.
Can I die?
If I die like this, I won’t mind.
“We shouldn’t.”
I don’t answer her protest. I know she’s right. I just don’t care. “You torture me as you see fit, sweet Agatha,” I breathe out, lips still touching hers on every word. “Take me, don’t take me, I don’t care. I couldn’t move even if I wanted to.”
Her cry of frustration is soft and deep, like the depths of her, I imagine.
She kisses me. Rocks against me, rubbing herself harder and faster as I feel the wetness on her thighs transfer itself to my lower limbs.
And all I can do is lie here, breathless, captivated. Captured.
“One day I will engulf you. Wrap you in me and swallow you down, fill you, and tangle you in my tentacles until you can’t bear to be free,” I warn her. Beg her.
My sweet Agatha. She breaks the kiss and asks, “Tentacles? Ohhh. That’s why I couldn’t find your legs.”
Agatha hits her climax, and the world spirals out of focus.
She makes me helpless, and I like it. It’s a new sort of helplessness, not trapped in a dungeon of glass and gold, but trapped in her private world, a spectator who is glad he has this ringside seat.
“Lucius... Thank you for visiting,” she whispers, kissing me with little soft pecks all over my face. “It’s nice to have someone in my head who’s safe.”
Oh. Ohhh, little one. I’m so very dangerous.
But maybe I won’t be—to her.
LOUISA ASHCROFT ISthe nicest librarian ever—very different from the tyrant who ran the law library reference section at my university. Each week, the book club reads a different book, and Louisa is always there, unabashedly championing the sultriest mind candy. This week, we’re actually going to read something different, a history of Pine Ridge that Gloria White-Creighton (the lady who owns White Pines, where the club meets)recommended. I know the library has a dozen copies because—get this—Louisa’s hubby, Mortimer, wrote the book!
Know what is even cooler? I know that. I know who runs the book club, who is married to who, and who the local authors are. “Louisa! I’m here to borrow a copy of your husband’s book if there are any left,” I exclaim, juggling my purse and looking for my library card. (I got one last week. I’m putting downroots.)
“You get the last one.” Louisa smiles and reaches over to the display next to the circulation desk. “I can’t help but notice those rosy cheeks and that sparkling grin. That is the face of a lady who just got laid or paid. Which is it?” she whispers, leaning forward.
“Louisa!” I giggle. I guess Iwasthe one shamelessly recounting my ex’s bedroom failures in comparison to the hot new book boyfriend we read about this week. That was fueled by wine and everyone else talking about romantic tips, tricks, and things they look back on now and laugh about.
This is what it’s like having friends again, I remind myself, trying not to hug myself and squeal.
Fighting a mental health battle that puts you in a residential facility for months shows you who your real friends are. Guess what I discovered? I didn’t have many, and the ones I did have were far away.
“Sorry, I don’t mean to pry, but you’re glowing.” Louisa looks away. “Card, please?”
“I had the spiciest dream!” I hiss, glad when she looks my way again, her dark eyes shining behind her glasses. “I don’t know if my apartment is haunted or if I just have a dream lover, but—”
Louisa drops the book with a thud. “Ghost?”
I blush and pretend that I must find something in my purse. “Oh. Uh. Yeah, probably just a dream. Anyway, it’s a recurring one. I mean, the same figure keeps showing up. So, how are salesfor Mortimer’s book? I hear he’s going to release an audiobook, too?”
“A ghost? Who keeps visiting you? Is he nice? What’s he look like?”
