When he finishes and his hands release my hips, my legs give in, and I fall flat on my stomach on the mattress. He stretches out beside me on his back, shoulder-to-shoulder with me, his lips close enough for me to feel his breath on mine—fully-clothed; he didn't even take off his glasses.
I think of how nice it would be to kiss him. I can feel the warmth of his body at my side, and I know it's the closest he'll ever get to holding me. I wonder if eventhisis uncomfortable for him.
He runs his fingers through my hair, combing it away from my face, and I wish I could do the same for him. I wish I knew what his hair feels like between my fingers.
I exhale slowly, closing my eyes and imagining his arms wrapped around me, his fingers laced through mine—warmed by his body heat instead of still cuffed and getting colder by the second while his cum drips out of me. I know he doesn't want to be like this, but I also can't help but feel like if someone is going to handcuff me and fuck me raw like a rag doll, they should at least hold me afterward.
I wish for just a second that I were with Dax instead, and then instantly feel shame.
"Saige, you know…his mom was really sick. I don't know how much you've heard about her, but she even stabbed his dad once—right in front of Elias. He should have accepted that he couldn't take care of her. It's not your fault, and it's not your mom's, either. And I do feel bad about the way we treated you. Even though my involvement may have been…more indirect, you were right; I didn't do anything about it, and I enjoyed it at the time."
I don't know anything about her. No one talks about her. I don't want an apology, either—not from any of them. I wouldn't accept it, not even while handcuffed naked in bed.
"Yeah, I don't…I don't really care if you feel bad…"
Nolan frowns. "You remember when we were in the kitchen last night, and you told me it was nice to be around people who haven't been broken by the rest of the world yet?"
"Yes."
"I get it, because that's how I feel about Dax. But I like being around you and your brokenness, too, even if I played a hand in that. It's comfortable. Is that fucked up?"
The dull sound of a phone vibrating nearby interrupts us before I can tell him thatyes, it's really fucked up.
"Is that yours?" Nolan asks.
"Probably," I tell him. "It was in my pocket."
"Mmm…I guess I should uncuff you, anyway, huh?"
"Yeah, probably."
"If I have the key."
"What?!"
"Juuuust kidding."
"That's not funny."
He pulls the key from the drawer beside the bed and uncuffs me. I turn onto my back and pull the covers over my body, rolling out my aching wrists.
Nolan grabs my phone from the floor and hands it to me before lying at my side again, on top of the covers.
SLUT
YOU'RE A DEAD WHORE
NO ONE WILL MISS YOU WHEN YOU'RE GONE. YOU HAVE NO FRIENDS. NO ONE LOVES YOU. YOU SHOULD JUST DO IT YOURSELF.
I swallow hard and blink back tears, hoping that when I speak, he can't hear how much it bothers me. "It's more of those messages. Less creative than the others."
"Hmm…maybe he's flustered because he can't find you and take pictures of you."
"Yeah. Maybe."
"Let me see your phone."
He messes around with it for a couple of minutes before handing it back.
