Page 17 of Hunted Mate
“Why are you here?”
“Well, I like to keep an eye on you,” he says. “I can’t for much longer. You’re going to have to stop drinking. You need a clear head. And a new thing to do.”
I reach for the beverage. But it’s hot. Too hot.
“Drink some.”
“I need milk.”
“You don’t have any.”
“But I need it.”
“I added some water.”
“Oh, well, that’s okay. Is it mashed potato?”
“What do you mean?”
“Just add water?”
This is good banter. I am a funny and witty person. I know this because I am making myself giggle. He’s not getting the joke, but that’s because he’s not as funny as I am.
“I’m going to get you to bed,” he says. “You’re exhausted.”
“I’m not tired,” I say as my eyes roll back in my head.
“You’re dangerously exhausted, and drunk.”
“I’m getting more sober by the moment.”
“I know that, but I’m putting you to bed regardless. Come on.”
He helps me up from the couch, sniffs, and shakes his head.
“You’re dirty as hell,” he says. “You need to have a shower.”
“Don’t want a shower.”
“I’m not putting you into bed like this. You’re dirty, baby.”
He takes me to the bedroom and starts undressing me. It’s not like when the other man was pawing at me, it doesn’t feel greedy and cruel and nasty. It feels like being made vulnerable. He can’t see me. I won’t let him.
I wriggle out of his grasp and find the floor again. It’s cooler here. Nicer. Very stable and solid.
“You are such a little brat,” he growls, coming after me.
You can’t hide on the floor. Floor is for everybody. Everybody can see and touch floor. If you want to hide, you need wall.
He starts taking the shirt off me. And I remember. The thing. He can’t see the thing.
“No!”
He pulls my shirt off my shoulders, thinking I am just being annoying, and suddenly it is all too late.
He stops.
And stares.
