Page 49 of Cruel Cravings

She usually emerged from the sessions in a dulled state, like she was going through the motions. Once alone in her room, she’d curl up on her bed and press the pillow over her head until eventually she fell asleep.

I lurked in the shadows. I let myself into her room.

She was a constant on my mind and I couldn’t stand the agony of being apart.

Unbeknownst to her, she had become the only bright spot in my dark and lonely world. We had never really met, yet I couldn’t bear life without her.

In sleep, she was soft and unburdened.

I studied every inch of her. The twisted manner in which she slept, one leg out of the bedsheet, feet always bare. The subtle curves that the bedsheet hinted at as it molded to her body. Her full lips remained parted and she snored—not loudly, more like raspy breaths she let out in deep sleep.

The moonlight fell over the bed in silver strips, her dark skin a striking contrast.

I was enthralled.

And then the nightmares began.

What was peaceful sleep turned into restless tossing. Her face contorted in pain. She would whimper and beg. Her hands clutched at the bedsheets, and sometimes, tears even slipped out from under her closed eyelids.

I would hover closer, tense and concerned but lost how to help.

How could I reach her in her dreams? What could I do when I was the hospital secret?

If my father knew I was even inside her room, there would be hell to pay…

I kept my distance. The shadows swallowed me up as I watched her horror unfold.

“No,” she’d moan, twisting in the sheets. “NO!”

She kicked at the sheets. She clawed at the pillows. Her body arched off the bed and her thighs fell open. Her hand snaked in between and the expression on her face shifted.

I eased closer, lost as to what was unfolding.

Jael was touching herself. Her hand had slipped inside her panties even as she was in the throes of her nightmare.

Breathing labored and whimpers caught in her throat, the sight was strange and surreal. From through the thin fabric of her panties, the ministrations of fingers could be seen. The rubbing motion she was doing.

I moved even closer and did something I swore I never would—I touched her.

Only her wrist.

My giant hand made hers look even smaller than it was. I clenched my fingers around her wrist and went to pry her hand away.

But then she moaned again. She trembled in place, mouth agape, brows knitted. It was a look of either the deepest pain or greatest pleasure, and it dawned on me it could be both.

The first time it ever happened, I wrenched her hand away, and eventually she went still.

The second time, I stood over her bed and let her finish.

The third time… I watched as she writhed and whimpered and questioned how I could possibly be of use. What could I do to make this end?

I reached for her hand, intending to pull it away. Instead, as I scooped it up in mine and my gaze fell to her spread legs, a desire that was dark and ugly bloomed. It was raw and primitive. Too intense to fight as it took me over.

This was how I could help her.

That’s what I told myself. That’s how I justified what I did.

I could give her pleasure. Even better pleasure than she was having in her fitful sleep. I cupped her pussy from through the clingy fabric of her panties and the heat that radiated pushed me over the edge.

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