Shaking my head, I try to rid myself of the image.I can’t be attracted to my bodyguard, not to Fenrir, not to a man as savage as he is monstrous.His scars should repulse me as much as his actions.But they don’t.
My hand wanders over my breasts, rubbing soap into my hard nipples and then winding its way down between my legs.
He’s all I can think about.
It’s the isolation,I tell myself.It’s because he’s the only red-blooded male within spitting distance.
Whatever the reason, I give up trying to dispel the image of him.
I’ve no shame, no restraint as I picture Fenrir pushing me to the floor, spreading my legs, and telling me to be a good girl as his tongue works up the inside of my thigh.
Steam fills the small room as my pleasure builds with each movement of my hand, each image of him licking me, of how I wish my fingers were his tongue.
Pressing my palm against the wall of the cubicle, I steady myself as my climax snowballs, the heat building, the steam swirling.I bite my lip, the taste of blood mixing with desire.My thirst at wanting my lips on him, my mouth around him, my tongue flirting up his length sweeps over me.
Just as my orgasm starts to roll through me, ripping at my insides, the lights go out.
Shit.
It takes a second for my body to recalibrate.
Getting my breath back, I blink as if the lights have something to do with my eyes malfunctioning and not the bulb having blown.
Great.This is all I need.
Pulling the glass shower screen to the side, I wobble, the room shifting in this new dimension.I kneel, not wanting to slip on the wet surface and have to call for Fenrir to rescue me as I writhe about like a landbound fish.
I can just make out the outline of the small window, but the night sky is unnaturally dark tonight, the glass absorbing any light into the blackness that’s now taken over the room.
It’s a sticky dark.A rolling density.A black you could easily drown in.
Placing my hand on the floor, I feel for the mat, which sits outside the cubicle.It’s not ideal, but it’s better than trying to navigate my way around this nothingness naked.My hand meets the material, and I pull it to me, patting away the water that clings to my skin as if my body is the only sanctuary.
A tad drier, I ease myself to stand and throw the mat back onto the floor.I step out of the cubicle, my foot landing on the now-damp mat.
To my right, I can see the faint orange outline of the doorway.Thank God I left the light on in my room.I take baby steps, hands out in front of me, feeling for anything that shouldn’t be there.
But thereissomething there.
It’s not solid, nothing tangible, but it’s there.It’s a cold trickling at the base of my ankle, like a draft from an open door.The en suite is small, the shower having filled the room with hot steam, so this cold is unwelcome, like it shouldn’t be here at all.
Moving quicker, I lunge forwards, finding the towel draped over the wall-mounted heater.Wrapping the cotton around me, I turn and press my hands against the door, running them over the panels, searching for the lock.
But I can’t find it.
I imagine where it should be—right by the handle, the little brass mechanism that slides in and out.My fingers trail the wood like a spider’s legs as the cold sensation climbs up the back of my calf, reaching under the towel.
What the fuck?
I try to calm myself, even as a palpable panic swells in my stomach.
This is my mind playing tricks on me, my imagination running wild due to the lack of sensory grounding.
The cold slithers further up my leg.
I’m just disorientated.Everything is fine.I just need to calm down and find the lock.
But it isn’t where it’s supposed to be.
