Page 15 of Watch Me Burn
My body melts into the mattress as the last tremors fade. He withdraws, and his hands move to my bound wrists, snapping the zip-tie with his fingers, a casualdisplay of strength that should terrify me. But when those same hands soothe the angry marks on my skin, the contradiction makes my breath catch.
“You’re a goddess, little doe.” He helps me roll onto my side, arranging my limbs on the bed.
I smile up at him, exhaustion tugging at my consciousness. The space between us feels charged with unspoken things, especially the kiss that never comes. The absence of that simple intimacy feels like a wound sometimes. But I don’t ask. Don’t push. Not anymore. I’m too hesitant to upset this delicate balance we’ve found.
He stands, adjusting his clothing. “Don’t fall asleep on me, beautiful. We’re just getting started.”
Hours blur together in a haze of touch and surrender. When it’s over and he’s gone, I lie sprawled across tangled bedding, every muscle humming with the aftershocks. My mind floats in that space between satisfaction and dreams.
My eyelids grow heavy, and sleep pulls at me. I should get up and pee. As a doctor, I know better than to fall asleep with his semen warm and sticky inside me. Last month's UTI should be reminder enough.
But my body refuses to move. His warmth still coats my thighs, and something primal in me wants to keep it there, this proof of what we’ve done, and this piece of him that lingers when everything else about him disappears with the dawn.
As consciousness slips away, I wonder if I’m losing my mind, letting a masked stranger possess me so completely. But the thought dissolves, washed away by the echo of his voice, his touch, and his promise to return.
Chapter five
Luna
Ipush through the double doors to the treatment area, my arms loaded with bags from the feed store and pharmacy, plus the mail I grabbed from the post office. Exhaustion weighs heavily on my shoulders from this morning’s errands, and all I want is to get these supplies sorted and maybe steal five minutes to myself. The familiar antiseptic smell hits me, mingling with something else, something sweet and chemical that makes my nose wrinkle.
Nail polish?
“What do you think?” Maren holds up two bottles. “Hooker red or bashful blue?”
I stop dead in my tracks, blinking at the scene before me. What the hell?
She’s sitting on a stool in front of the main treatment table, while Ricky sits in front of her with what looks like an iced peanut butter pop clutched in one paw, picking at the eye of the stuffed monkey I gave him last week with the other.
I squint at the treat. “Where did he get that? We were out of pops after Tate’s attempted bribe the other day.”
“I had some bananas on my counter that had gone too soft, so I picked up some natural peanut butter on my way home last night and made them.”
A laugh bubbles up from my chest despite my fatigue. “I had the same idea! I picked up bananas and peanut butter today too. When I told him what they were for, the produce manager at the store in Estes gave me a bunch that were turning at a discount.”
“Good. Half of what I made is already gone. Zorro’s had two, I had to give Shadow and Ghost each two, Winston had one, and this is Ricky’s second.”
I set the bags on the opposite counter, watching in amazement as Ricky continues his methodical destruction of his toy while enjoying his treat, his usual chaos replaced by focused concentration. For once, he’s not making grabby gestures at Maren’s chest or lunging forward with his usual manic energy. The distraction monkey is actually working.
“What are you doing?”
“Trimming his nails. But I want to paint them, too.”
“You can’t paint a raccoon’s claws.”
“Why not?” She examines the polish bottles with serious consideration. “Raccoons should look pretty, too.”
“The chemicals in that are dangerous, and he’s just going to scratch and bite it off.”
“Don’t worry, it’s the kid-friendly kind. Non-toxic.”
My brain stutters for a moment. “Wait a minute. Hooker Red is kid-friendly?”
Maren snorts in a way that always means trouble. “Eh… that’s just what I call it because it looks like the color a prostitute would leave around a john’s dick.”
Jesus Christ. Sometimes I forget how crude she can be until she drops bombs like that in casual conversation.
I reach for the bottle. “Let me see it.”
