The doctor is efficient, but thorough. He cleans up all the wounds, stitches what needs to be stitched, and generally ensures that Sam is in one piece. He doesn’t make conversation while he works aside from a few dry comments that reveal a dark sense of humor.
I clean up the kitchen floor while he works, and go down the hall and stairs too in order to get any blood that might have spilled along the way. It feels good to be doing something while swept up in this strangeness, which is itself a relief from the awful monotony that had already begun to set in.
The doctor passes me on the stairs, gives me a quiet nod, and walks out of my life without anything in the way of aplomb. He is like a dark ghost. I go back into my apartment and find Sam in my bed, slightly tidier, but still having ruined the sheets.
“I’ll buy you a new mattress,” he promises me as he catches me looking at the mess.
“Okay,” I say.
I go and have a shower, for all that is worth. I know I am going to end this night smeared in blood. It’s good to get the clothes I wore to college off, though. I shed the pretense of normality and put on the jimmy jams of what the fuckery, then I go and sit next to him on the bed.
“Are you going to tell me what happened?”
“It’s best you don’t know,” he says.
“Did you try to fuck someone and end up getting stabbed?”
His lips quirk. “No,” he says “You’re the only one I try to fuck. This was a different matter.”
“Then what was it?”
He turns his head toward me, though that seems to be more effort than he really wants to make.
“How many times are you planning on asking that before realizing I have no intention of answering?”
“How many times am I going to have to ask before you answer?”
HIs response is to grab me by the arm and pull me down next to him, pulling me against the uninjured parts of his body.
“Quiet,” he growls softly against my ear.
I let myself stop talking. There’s no point trying to force conversation, and he is obviously seriously injured. I am relieved he is here. I am happy I know where he is. I am glad he is in my bed. This is…
“Suck my cock, baby,” he orders softly.
“What?”
“Suck my dick.”
I hesitate. He’s so injured. I know I shouldn’t. I should never do any sexual thing for him. But there’s something in his tone that makes me want to acquiesce. It’s a dominant command, but there’s vulnerability there too. He wants me to help him feel better.
I slide down the bed and I take him in my mouth. It’s slower and sweeter than it usually is. He doesn’t thrust his hips, or grab my head to keep it in place. He lets me do what I want to do, lying back and giving me a rare dose of what feels like it might be control.
He has his secrets. Deep, dark ones, I am sure. I have none. I am an open book to him, and sometimes I feel like he has read every page even before I’ve had the chance to write it. With my mouth wrapped around his cock, I’m not learning anything more overt about him, but it does feel like I am learning his body better.
I pay attention to what happens when I do specific little things with my tongue, how he reacts to the tip of it playing around under the flare of the head of his cock. He makes the most delightful noises when I engulf him more fully after teasing him to the brink.
“I’m going to come,” he growls, giving me some warning that I don’t really need because I can feel his cock pulsing, and the tightness of his balls is a dead giveaway. He couldn’t hold back if he wanted to, and I am not going to let him.
He grunts and winces in pain, and of course he comes. I think about swallowing it so it doesn’t make a mess, but then I’m reminded that the bed is a write-off at this point anyway. Ilet him cover himself in his seed. It feels appropriate somehow not to take it down into myself, but I guess we’re way past appropriate.
“Thank you, baby,” he murmurs as I slide back up his body and rest my head on his shoulder.
I feel a sense of peace with him that I absolutely should not feel. He’s obviously mixed up in terrible dark things, affairs that have nothing whatsoever to do with his public front as a famous psychologist. Someone really wanted to hurt him today. I would have been devastated if he’d been killed.
Fuck. I love him.
I’ve fallen in love with a man who holds me captive, uses me sexually, will not answer to me, and is probably evil and psychopathic.
