Page 9 of The Flesh Remembers
She scrambled back into bed, panting, pulling the sheets to her chest.
The room began towarp. The shadows on the wall slithered downward like black oil. Her reflection in the mirror shifted, her lips too red, her eyes too wide, her chest rising and falling like she was mid-climax. But she wasn't touching herself. Yet she felt it.
At the centre of her pleasure, a throb. Deep. Gnawing. The kind of ache that made her mouth fall open and her legs clench in shame.
She looked back at the mirror. The version of herself in it… was moaning.
“No,” she whispered. “No, no, no”
The mirror-Eleanor smiled. And then mouthed a name.Frye.
Eleanor screamed. She leapt up, ran to the sink, splashed water on her face, and stared at her reflection. It was back to normal—pale, sweating, and terrified. She looked down.
The crescent bite was still there.
James had possessed an unassuming grace, neither tall nor particularly muscular, but with a nimble confidence that made Eleanor’s heart pound. She pictured his boyish smileand the softness of his hair between her fingers. More than once, as they grew comfortable in each other’s embrace, he had teased her for being far too clinical in describing desire, calling her “my scholar of the flesh.” That memory made her chest tighten. If only he knew how far she would take her medical mind to bring him back.
But the nights they spent together, truly together, haunted her now. She recalled one evening in the small carriage house where they had sought refuge after getting caught in an unseasonable autumn storm. James had embraced her with uncharacteristic boldness, pressing her against the wooden wall. Rain hammered the roof overhead, while each clap of thunder spurred them to greater frenzy. His lips had been everywhere, searing paths along her neck and collarbone, igniting a heat deep within her core.
She remembered how his hands had slid so sweetly as they roamed her body, as though reverence and hunger warred within him. They had tumbled onto a makeshift bed of old horse blankets, their hands fumbling in their urgency to strip away the barriers of clothing. The smell of rain-soaked hay, the rasp of his breath against her cheek, every detail etched itself into her mind. The first press of his skin against hers was electric, their mingling warmth dissolving her inhibitions.
She flushed deeper, recalling how she had guided his hand along her body, showing him exactly where to touch, to stroke, to coax a gasp from her lips. The taste of his sweat on her tongue, the friction of their bare skin sliding together… it was a dance of discovery and surrender. When at last he was inside her, the mix of pleasure and closeness nearly overwhelmed her senses. They had moved in perfect rhythm, a crescendo built and built until it shattered, leaving her gasping and satiated.
A sharp pulse of desire radiated through her now, as her nipples strained against the fabric of her blouse, so sensitiveit was maddening. Her breaths were quick and unsteady, each release carrying the smouldering ache that pulsed low within her. Her hand drifted almost unconsciously to her abdomen, lower, tracing the curve of her hip and teasing toward the ache that demanded relief.
The phantom sensation of James’s hands his firm grip, his fingers delving into places only he had known, made her shiver and quake. Her imagination betrayed her further, conjuring the rasp of his lips against her skin, the scrape of his teeth grazing the tender slope of her neck. Her back arched slightly at the thought, a desperate attempt to recreate the touch that lingered only in memory. The yearning within her continued intensifying as her hand slid lower, grazing the edge of propriety, testing the limits of restraint.
A strangled sound escaped her lips as she surrendered to the torrent of need coursing through her. The idea of succumbing, of letting herself be consumed by this overwhelming hunger, was both terrifying and intoxicating. Her fingers teased the hem of her skirt, slipping beneath to brush against her inner thigh, the heat of her skin almost unbearable. She let her eyes flutter closed, her mind lost in the fantasy of James’s touch, his voice a husky whisper in her ear, his body pressing her down, claiming her completely.
A shiver ran through her, sharp and electric, as her hand moved higher, closer to where the ache burned hottest. Her other hand gripped the table's edge beside her, knuckles white as she fought to balance on the knife’s edge of longing and restraint. The memory of James was no longer just a recollection; it was alive, pulsing through her veins, consuming her with every beat of her heart. The scent of rain and hay, the warmth of his breath, the weight of his body, she could feel it all, and it drove her mad with need.
Eleanor touched the pendant at her throat. The disk warmed as her thoughts darkened. Each pulse of pleasuremade it throb faintly, humming like a living creature thrilled by her descent.
Eleanor felt a ferocity within her now, an unstoppable force that needed to be released at any cost. She had never felt such powerful, overwhelming arousal before. It consumed her completely until there was nothing left but this throbbing, demanding need that would not be silenced back into its corner.
Eleanor continued her exploration until her fingers found the wetness between her legs and slipped her fingers within the wet and swollen folds. She moaned softly as her fingers moved deftly first around the edges and then in ever-narrowing circles until she found that swollen and sensitive spot that begged for her attention.
She cried out loudly now, rubbing in a circular motion with increasing pressure as the pleasure coursed through her body like electrical currents. Eleanor gasped and cried, her head tossing against the pillow as her other hand clutched the blankets.
“James,” she called out breathlessly, trying to imagine he was there with her, over her, inside of her. “James!”
Finally, the orgasm overtook her, and she felt the rolling waves of ecstasy start in her belly and then spread down her legs and arms. Wave after wave clenched her muscles, causing her back to arch violently, her hands and feet to clench involuntarily. The orgasm was so intense that tears sprang to her eyes and continued for so long that she worried that it might never stop, and she would be stuck in this purgatory of unbearable pleasure forever.
And then it was over. The silence that filled Eleanor’s head was profound. All her muscles felt loose and rubbery, and she doubted her legs would hold her should she try to stand. As she lay on the bed, completely spent, her eyesclosed, her legs still splayed apart, Eleanor thought she heard something. A voice. A voice she knew.
“What a sight you are, Ellie,” James, or something pretending to be James, said with a laugh.
Excerpt from the Diary of Dr. Eleanor Ashcroft
What is happening to me? I scarcely recognize the woman I’ve become. I have done things I hesitate to write down, lest the mere act of putting them to paper brands me with the shame I already feel. And yet, here I am, my hand trembling not from regret but longing and longing for more.
Why do I enjoy these things? That question gnaws at me, pulling at the edges of my sanity. Is it because it is something forbidden and dark? Perhaps it is the thrill of stepping so close to ruin, of being consumed by a force beyond my own will.
And still, the guilt presses down upon me. What would James think if he saw me now? Would he forgive me? Or would he turn away, no longer able to see the woman he loved? I cannot forgive myself, yet I cannot stop myself. Something has been awakened deep within me, a part of myself that frightens me, but one I cannot silence.
I am at war with myself—a woman who clings to propriety and grief, and another who dares to ask for more. I don’t know which will win.
You Taste Ready
