Game on, fucker.
Padding into my bedroom, I remove my satin robe and position myself on the bed before retrieving the rose toy from my nightstand.
It growls to life in my palm.
Jesus.
I pull back slightly, holding it at arm’s length.
“What the hell is in this thing?”
The entire room buzzes. The walls buzz. This is not the soft, romantic toy I was promised. This is industrial equipment.
My lips press into a line as I stare at it.
I’m doing this for every sleepless night, every stomp, every grunt, every emotionally stunted “Hello, Madison.”
This is war.
And I’m the nuclear option.
I settle onto my back and stare at the ceiling one last time.
Then I press the toy to my clit.
My back arches so hard I nearly launch myself off the mattress.
“HOLY… MOTHERFU—JESUS CHRIST.”
I slap my hand over my mouth and drop the toy, but it keeps vibrating, bouncing around on the duvet.
What the fuck was that?
I blink at the ceiling, then at the toy.
This thing could bite, so I cautiously reach for it, turn it off, and breathe.
I need a plan. That… that was too fast. It can’t be over that fast. I won’t give him the satisfaction.
I need to take breaks to fake it. Draw it out. Make it sound like an opera.
I say to the ceiling, “You brought this on yourself.” I crank the toy one setting lower and whisper a prayer. “For myself and my vagina, please don’t let me die like this.”
Then I try again.
Twenty-Nine
Beckett
I’m seconds away from sleep.
The kind where your bones feel heavy and your mind shuts off before your eyes even close. I’ve earned this after two back-to-back shifts.
All I want is silence. Maybe six uninterrupted hours of unconsciousness.
I roll onto my side, adjust the pillow, and sigh into the quiet.
That’s when I hear… a sound.
