Page 27 of The Blood we Crave: Part Two

Lyra

There is a lingering smile on my lips when I leave the bathroom, my fingers clicking off the light and submerging upstairs in darkness. A cloud of steam from my shower billows into the hall. My sock-covered feet slide across the floor as I walk to my room.

The lingering effects of weed and alcohol still fizzle inside my mind. Tonight had been exactly what we needed. A little break from the anarchy. A pocket of peace.

It’s late, and the house is quiet. Sounds of rest echo between the walls. I can hear every creak of wood beneath my steps as I make my way into my bedroom. My bed frame squeaks when I lie down on top of the covers and stare up at the white ceiling, curious if Thatcher is doing the same thing.

Both of our beds are pushed against a shared wall, several layers of wood separating us. I sit up on my knees, pressing the side of my head to the wall, closing my eyes, and trying to listen for him.

Eerie silence greets me, a huff of disappointment expelling from my chest as I lie back down, going through my normal night routine of wondering. Dreaming.

In my mind, the wall isn’t there. When night falls, it’s just us lying adjacent and breathing in the world. No words, just existing with each other, because sometimes that’s enough.

I think about how he lies in bed, suspecting he sleeps on his stomach, but when he’s restless, he rolls to his back. Only a sheet covers him because he enjoys the cold.

Most nights though, I wonder if he thinks about me. About how difficult it is to be this close to one another. A thin veil of separation that he slammed between us.

“He looks at you like he wants to be beneath your skin.”

Does he remember how that felt? To be buried within my skin?

My nipples stiffen at the thought, rubbing against my thin cotton tank top.

When it’s late and the house is still, does he let himself remember the way we looked decorated in blood? Our bodies were a mirage of liquid death and vitality, hands greedy to discover all the ways for us to connect. Can he hear how I moaned in his memory, in a beautiful blend of pain and pleasure, while he molded my body to his cock?

Thatcher was perfectly made, butIwas made perfect for him.

I let out a shaky breath, my hands gliding down the front of my breasts. A dull ache thrums between my thighs, caused by emptiness. I crave to feel full of him again.

Does he close his eyes and feel himself taking my virginity, forcing his way into my tight walls in the midst of my orgasm? The way I tensed around him, refusing to let him leave?

I grab a pillow from behind my head, shoving it between my legs to aid the throbbing. A whimper tumbles from my lips as I grind my core against the material, and it’s painfully disappointing.

It’s too soft.

I need firm. I don’t need soft or gentle. I ache for the sharp edges and hard weight, the force of his waist to spread me wide.

My tongue swipes across my bottom lip, chasing the flavor of metallic. I just need a little relief from the tension that’s built since he moved in. He’s not just living in my mind now; he’s in my home. In my life.

Before, I could picture a moment, imagine all the things he would do. Now, I’ve had the real version. The unbound version of him that claimed my body with feral hunger.

Frustration burns my eyes as I lift my hips again, the fabric of my panties scratching against my clit. Underwhelming sensations coast through me like a dull lighter, sparking over and over with no chance of producing a flame. My chest heaves, quiet moans tickling my ears.

“Thatch,” I whisper in the dark for no one to hear but me.

Pretending feels like torment, a sick tease to build me up and leave me dangling off the edge. It’s pointless when my dream has become a reality I can no longer grasp.

I flip my body over, folding the pillow in half before shoving it against my pussy, straddling it. I try to lose myself in my mind, chasing his memory. My hips rock forward, and I lift my hands to palm my tender breasts, stomach tightening as I roll my body along the seam of the cushion, trying to trick myself into imagining it’s his finger I’m riding. Mouth. Cock. Anything.

But it’s futile.

The coil is wound so tightly in me I’m on the verge of tears, simply scratching everywhere but where it truly itches, working so hard towards an unsatisfactory end.

A sad whimper shakes my chest. My teeth catch my bottom lip, sinking into the flesh with enough force to bring blood. A calming hum hits my throat as I taste it on my tongue.

“My, my.” The click of his tongue rings in my ears, making me gasp. “Can you not get yourself there, pet?”

My body wakes up, curling out of its slumber with a vengeance. My hips rock accidentally, a zap of raw pleasure thrumming from my clit that makes me shake.

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