The taste of her sweat-slicked skin is intoxicating, spurring me to thrust harder, faster, deeper, but it's too good and I can’t hold back any longer, so I slip a hand between our bodies, finding her clit and rubbing it in tight circles. She bucks against me, a strangled moan escaping her lips, the sound an aphrodisiac.
"That's it," I hiss. "Give in to it. Let me hear how much you love being used like the filthy little whore you are."
Her walls clench around me as my words wash over her. I can feel her teetering on the precipice, fighting her own desires. But I won't allow her to hide from this. From me. From the darkness we both crave.
"Come for me," I command, increasing the pressure on her clit. "Now."
She shatters beneath me, her back arching as the waves of her climax crash over her. Her cries of ecstasy mingle with sobs of humiliation, and the vision of her undoing pushes me over the edge. I bury myself deep inside her as I come, my own guttural groan echoing in the room.
For a moment, I'm lost in the haze of pleasure, my body shuddering as I empty into her. But as the fog clears, I'm left with a hollow feeling. The beast is sated, for now, but the shame and self-loathing are quick to take its place when the walls of my mind shift as daylight breaks, cutting through the dark of night, and my dream unravels. My sexy little maid dematerializes as I wake with a gasp and the sticky sensation of jazz covering my abdomen.
The darkness, both real and metaphoric, retreats, but the taste of her still lingers on my tongue - sharp, intoxicating, and utterly addictive. I’m alone, once again, in my lavish room, yet the shadow of her presence remains, a reminder of the fantasies I can never share with the world.
But what does it mean that I crave this?
What does it mean that I wish I could let my dreams consume me in reality?
Chapter
Two
Linnea
“Fucking hell, Dad! How could you do this to us?”
I have my suspicions, of course. Either my father, stupid, naive, but nevertheless loving man that he was, thought he was freeing me and mom by taking his own life… or something far more abhorrent happened, which I don’t want to consider, so I stoically stick with the first option.
But now, along with drowning in grief, we’re also drowning in a debt that’s laced with a terror unlike anything I’ve ever known.
Dad meant well, of that I’m certain. My mum got ill and when she was refused life-saving treatment because our insurance didn't cover it, he decided to take out a loan. He just wasn’t very careful about who he took the money from. Or I guess he was just desperate after he tried all the legitimate means.
Like I said, naive. He thought it would be like a bank, pay a set amount each month, which mostly covered the interest, and whittle away at the capital in slow, measured increments.
But that's not how the mob works. And now, not even a month after dad's death, they're knocking on our door, demanding full payment. A payment which is now double what he borrowed.
I crumple the debt letter in my fist. It looks all legitimate and above board at first glance, despite the extortionate interest rates and fees, the details neatly printed on official headed paper. It was only after a visit from a loud-mouthed, hot-headed thug, who threatened things I don’t even want to think about, that I realized how wrong I was, and the true impact of Dad’s death came to light.
"I miss you, Dad. You have no idea how much I wish you were still here. Not just for me, but for Mom too. She's a shadow without you...."
Fuck! I'm talking to a ghost.
The coroner called it suicide, but if I’m being totally honest, I’m not so sure. Especially after my little chat with ‘Reggie’.
I don’t think that’s his real name, he just has some kind of hero worship of the Kray twins, given his fake cockney accent and the way he swaggers around in an ill-fitting pinstripe suit. He might be bordering on ridiculous and trying way too hard to act intimidating, but I don’t doubt he’s as nasty as they come. I still can’t shake the chill that ran down my spine when he casually mentioned how easy it would be for my mom to have an ‘accident’ if we don't pay up soon, and how he can help me make the money. The insinuation makes my stomach heave.
Worse, without dad, we don’t have a solid income. His life insurance policy refused to pay out after the suicide verdict, another thing that makes me think he didn't take his own life. He was always so protective of both me and Mom. No way he’d have deliberately left us in this mess.
Or maybe I want to believe that because the alternative, that he took the coward’s way out and left us holding the bag, doesn’tbear thinking about, either. Honestly, neither scenario is any better.
I glance at the crumpled letter in my hand, then at the bills piling up on the kitchen counter. We're barely scraping by as it is, and now this?
"I don't know if I can do this without you, Dad," I whisper, my voice breaking in despair.
We don't have the kind of money these people are demanding. We never will. Mom's still recovering; she shouldn't even be working the few hours she does at the diner. And even though I’ve dropped out of college, my measly wages from the cleaning jobs I’ve taken don't even cover our mortgage, let alone this monstrous debt. Because yeah, another little nugget of information I discovered was that dad remortgaged the house to cover some of mom’s treatment costs, as well as taking out this impossible loan. Now we’re in danger of defaulting and having our home repossessed. The bank might not rough us up or demand payment in kind, but it also won’t balk at evicting us and throwing us out on the street.
There’s no way I can tell Mom any of this. Not yet at least. Not until I have to. She's already a shell of herself, grief etched into every line on her face. This would shatter her even more.
I’m googling for high-paid jobs with minimal experience, desperate to find a solution, when I spot it. A small ad so discreet, I almost miss it.
