Something in my chest tightens, then drops. Because the way he says it doesn’t feel like a warning—it feels like a fact. And my body betrays me. I lean into him instead. Closer. My hands pulling him in, my breath uneven, my thoughts slipping out of reach as everything narrows down to him, to the way he touches me—the way he holds me like there’s no version of this where I get to pull away.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, softer now, his thumb brushing once along my jaw. “Don’t think.”
And I don’t. I don’t want to. Because this feels better. Easier. My thoughts blur at the edges, too hard to hold onto. And my body responds to his pace—faster now, stronger. Betraying every instinct that’s trying to catch up and make sense of this.
My chest rises too quickly—this isn’t how this is supposed to happen. There’s supposed to be a moment. A choice. Something clear. But there isn’t—there’s just him.
And then it’s over, the sensation of him coming inside me as my body continues to wake up. He pulls out and sprawls back on the bed, one arm lazily wrapped around me as if it’s just another night.
I don’t know how long it went on for before I gained consciousness. But is that bad? I trust him. I give him my body all the time. Ienjoyour sex life. Very much, in fact.
So what’s wrong about this? Maybe when I told him I wanted to be taken without knowing it was him, he took it as permission. As a sign that he could do what he wanted with me—use my body—regardless of whether I was awake.
I stare at the ceiling, trying to find the moment where this crossed a line. If it’s there, I can’t seem to hold onto it. Because underneath that, there’s something else, something worse—itfeltgood. My stomach twists. Intuitively, I’m aware that shouldn’t be the takeaway—that shouldn’t be what sticks. And yet it is.
I shift slightly, my gaze drifting toward the far wall. Something catches my attention. Not obvious. A detail. The angle of something—a reflection that shouldn’t quite line up the way it does. My eyes narrow slightly. There’s a device on the shelf. It’s angled toward the bed. Maybe it’s always been there. Maybe I just never noticed it. Maybe I’m noticing too much now.
A slow unease prickles under my skin. Like something watching. I swallow, turning my head slightly, trying to shake the feeling off. Trying to convince myself it’s nothing. That I’m overthinking. That this—all of this—is still something I understand.
Behind me, he shifts. Close again. Always close. His hand finds my waist like it belongs there. Like it always does. “You’re okay.”
The words settle over me. Calm. Certain. Like a conclusion. And the worst part—the part I can’t quite reconcile—is that I feel it. That same settling. That same quieting of everything that was starting to rise. My body relaxes again. Against him. Into him. Like it’s the easiest thing in the world. I close my eyes. Just for a second. And try not to think about why that feels normal.
I’m just not used to whatever this was—wasn’t prepared for it.
But it’s okay. He didn’t do anything to hurt me. And my body doesn’t care. It’s a little sore, but in that good way that being fucked by a more than decent cock brings. I might not remember it all, but I’ll be feeling it for days. I’m slick with wetness, a clear indication my body didn’t mind what he was doing by any means.
It’s fine, Ivy. Your guy fucked you. Calm the fuck down.
And everything softens after that.
My breathing slows, my body sinking back into the mattress,the tension draining out of me like it was never mine to begin with.
I wake up screaming. “Zane!” The words fly from my lips.
But it’s that kind of screaming that isn’t the shriek you think it is in the middle of your nightmare.
My body reacts before I wake. It thrashes around, but it’s like I’m in a straitjacket, most of the movement coming from my shoulders rather than my arms and legs.
My legs are tangled in the sheets, and my body is covered in a cool sweat that makes me shiver—hot and sticky cold at the same time.
Then I realize someone is tugging at me, pulling on my upper arm.
I immediately think it’s him—Zane—the man who almost destroyed me, and I brace myself and flinch away, my mind racing as it anticipates whatever torment he has planned for me next. Always something, each time more darker, more dangerous than before.
My heart pounds in my chest, and I force myself to still. The room is oddly silent.
But I’m tense, rigid. “Zane, stop…” I plead, half-groggy, half-panicked. This can’t be real.
I look over.
But there’s no trace of Zane.
I’m simultaneously relieved and—weirdly—disappointed.
I might pretend to myself that I’ve gotten closure—that no-contact is exactly the right way to approach such a monster—but if I’m honest with myself, that’s far from the case.
While I have no urge to be with him anymore in any capacity, I still have so many questions I need answered, to understand not just why me, but why in this way? I know he probably doesn’t have the answers, but it doesn’t stop me from cravingthem—from feeling like not having them has left me with a gaping hole in my heart that might never be repaired.