Page 28 of Hiss and Tell
But Sebastian… Sebastian looks at me like I’m the destination.
Rolling over, I press my face into the pillow and try to banish the thoughts that have been tormenting me since we said goodnight. Thoughts about how hard his body was beneath my fingertips. About the way his voice drops to that gravelly whisper when he’s trying to control himself.
About what it would feel like to have those hands everywhere.
Stop it,I tell myself.You can’t have this. You can’t risk it.
But my body doesn’t care about logic. Heat pools low in my belly as I imagine Sebastian’s mouth on my throat, his snakes brushing against my skin like living silk. In my fantasy, there’s no medical condition, no careful conversations about transmission rates and medications. There’s just want and need and the freedom to take what we both crave.
My hand slides down my stomach almost without my permission, slipping beneath the waistband of my sleep shorts. I’m already wet, already aching from that kiss, from the memory of his hands on my waist and his mouth claiming mine. When I touch myself, it’s Sebastian’s name that falls from my lips in a broken whisper.
“Sebastian,” I gasp into the darkness, circling the sensitive bundle of nerves as I imagine his massive hands on my body. Those hands that can encircle my entire waist, that cradle children’s books with such gentle care, that could hold me down or lift me up with equal ease. His snakes would wrap around mywrists like silken bondage, holding me still while he takes his time exploring every inch of my skin.
I picture him between my thighs, that beautiful mouth working magic on parts of me that ache for his touch. He’d use that careful, methodical attention he brings to everything he cares about, driving me slowly out of my mind with deliberate precision.
“Please,” I whisper to the empty room, my fingers working faster as the fantasy builds. I imagine him rising over me, all that controlled power finally unleashed, his eyes dark with desire as he takes what’s his. The thought of being claimed by Sebastian—truly, completely claimed—sends me arching off the bed.
I press my palm to my lips to muffle my cries as waves of pleasure crash over me, his name a broken, guttural sound against my fingers. When the aftershocks finally fade, I’m left breathless and shaking, more turned on than sated.
Because even my fantasies can’t compare to what it felt like to actually be in his arms.
When the aftershocks finally fade, I’m left breathless and shaking, more turned on than sated. Because even my fantasies can’t compare to what it felt like to actually be in his arms, to taste his desire, to feel the barely leashed power in his touch.
The prescription bottle on my nightstand seems to mock me in the moonlight. All that pleasure, all that want, and I still can’t have what I crave most.
Because no matter how much I want Sebastian Fangborn, no matter how perfect he seems, I know how this story ends. It always ends the same way—with me alone, protecting others from something I can’t control, something I’ll carry forever.
Some fairy tales don’t have happy endings. And some monsters are the ones we create for ourselves.
Chapter Seventeen
Aspen
Tuesday night should be simple—help Milo practice his father-son breakfast presentation one more time, get his clothes ready, do our bedtime routine, and make sure Derek knows the right time and place. Instead, I’m standing in my tiny bathroom at 6:37 PM, staring at my phone screen like it might explode.
Derek’s familiar text tone. Every muscle in my body goes on high alert. No. Please no. Not again.
The familiar surge of panic hits before I even read the message. It’s the same feeling I had three years ago when Derek promised to help with Milo’s first birthday party, then disappeared for a weekend with his friends. Or when he swore he’d be at Milo’s preschool graduation, then showed up two hours late mumblingabout “traffic.” With every broken promise, I became even more convinced that the only person I can count on is myself.
Milo’s voice carries from the living room where he’s arranging his dinosaur timeline poster for the hundredth time. “Mama? That’s Daddy’s tone.” The dread in his voice tells me we both know what’s coming.
Aspen?
My finger hovers over the screen. Three dots appear as Derek types, then disappear and reappear. Like he’s trying to find the right words to shatter his son’s heart.
Something came up. Rain check?
The words blur as fury rises, hot and choking. Four years of this. Four years of “something came up” and “next time for sure” and watching Milo’s face crumble with each broken promise.
“Mama?” Smaller now. Worried. “Is Daddy coming?”
“Bug, I—” But what can I say? What excuse can possibly make this okay?
Another text. Like an afterthought. Like his son is just another canceled appointment.Sorry. Tell him I’ll make it up to him.
“He’s not coming, is he?” Milo’s lower lip trembles as he appears in the bathroom doorway. “But he promised. He said this time for sure.”
“I know, baby.” I gather him close, breathing in his clean-shampoo smell. “Sometimes adults have problems keeping promises. But it’s not your fault. It’s never your fault.”
