Page 79 of Pulse
My hips lift, my thighs try to press together, but he refuses to move. The orgasm is too powerful. The strength of the climax is too much.
The room fades away, and I’m unsure if I’m floating or still on the desk. I’m not even sure where he’s touching me anymore. It feels like he’s everywhere.
“I can’t … Troy!I can’t.”
“Yes, you can,” he says, milking my orgasm for me. “Stop fighting me.”
The intensity begins to wane, and my vision slowly returns. The room isn’t a blur anymore. I go limp.
Troy stands, his face glistening with my cum. He smiles and shakes his head.
“What?” I ask, too tired to even sit up.
“That was the most typical Dahlia thing I’ve ever witnessed.”
I hum, too exhausted to care what he’s talking about.
“You beg me to eat your pussy, then you fight me when it gets good.” He scoops me up in his arms. “That’s such ayouthing to do.”
“Amething to do right now is to take a nap.”
“Let’s clean up together, and then we’ll lie down.”
I run my finger along his jaw, my heart filled with adoration for him. “Sounds like a plan.”
He gives me his new shy smile and carries me away.
Chapter Eighteen
Troy
Sleep has never been a friend of mine.
I can’t remember a time in my life when rest came easy. As a child, when the sun went down, things got sporty. Dad would come home and wake the whole house up with his yelling and breaking shit. If he was gone, the paper-thin walls would betray my mother’s privacy, and Travis and I could hear her crying in her room. Ralph even knew. Once it got dark, he’d corral my brother and me into our shared closet of a bedroom and lay in front of the door.
And we waited.
It’s been twenty years since I lived in that house—since I lived with,since I had parents—and I still fight anxiety every evening. Old habits die hard.
I exhale, blowing out some of the frustration riddling me tonight. I lie with Dahlia because she, too, seems to have a bad relationship with the dark. Something tells me this is a new thing with her, that it probably started once she realized her privacy had been violated. I don’t ask. I can’t track down the person who fucked with her and fuck with them back … yet.
But I will.
I pick up my glass of tea that was hot an hour ago and carry it to the table. My computer’s open, and a notepad and pen are beside it.
I’m particularly antsy tonight. Something’s nagging at me, and I can’t pinpoint it. I can’t work through the fog to find the root of my disturbance.
“What the hell is bothering me?” I ask the empty room. “What am I missing?”
I consider that it’s simply that I want to go home. I want to get it out of the way. When I think about returning to Savannah and all the things that could go wrong—assuming the stalker has been found and dismembered—it makes me nauseous … and ready to fight. I’m already done. Dahlia stole my fucking heart when I didn’t think I even had one. I’ve intentionally avoided this situation, this level of vulnerability, my entire life. Truth be told, it wasn’t that hard.
Until her.
Fear coats my stomach, reminding me this could go wrong. I could fail her.What if I’m unequipped to love her the way she wants to be loved?
What if she realizes that I’m unlovable?
“Stop it,” I say, admonishing myself. I sit at the table and awaken my computer. “I might be in Lincoln’s house, but I don’t have to be weak.”
