Page 39 of The Woman with the Handcuffs

It was screaming that jolted me awake, staring at an unfamiliar ceiling with my heart jumping in my chest.

It might have taken me longer to figure out what was going on if I hadn’t felt an unexpected weight on my body. And looked down to see a crown of blonde hair resting on my chest. And felt the warm breath on my neck.

I was painfully awake, aware, and hard in a fucking blink.

Great.

That was just great.

Caitlin was dead weight, her breaths slow and even in sleep. Her one arm was tucked between and under us, the cuffs biting into my wrist, so I imagined they were doing the same to hers. Her other arm was on my chest, the cast a hard press against my heart.

In my sleep, my arm had gone automatically around her, draped possessively around her hips, fingers curled in. Like the unconscious version of me was worried she might slip away.

The book I’d handed her was trapped between her legs and mine, a piece of paper shoved in around the hundred-page mark. So she’d been awake for a while while I slept.

I turned to look out the window, but she had all the drapes pulled. The room was blanketed in darkness, making me think I’d managed to sleep the majority of the day away. At some point, she’d decided to get some rest as well.

The rolling onto me thing was probably her lizard brain chasing my body heat. Her room was on the chilly side. Which I figured was thanks to her dedication to all things sweaters, hoodies, and blankets.

It wasn’t personal.

But, fuck, if it didn’t feel personal.

At least to the part of me that hadn’t gotten laid in longer than I cared to think about. Long enough for it to be difficult to talk down the damn hard-on pressing painfully against my slacks.

Upstairs, a door slammed, and the yelling grew closer in the apartment above.

Caitlin shifted in her sleep, grumbled, but settled back down.

It wasn’t until something crashed and shattered, followed by louder yelling, that she jolted awake.

There was a split second of stillness.

Then she was shooting upward, eyes anime-wide, her hair falling forward like a curtain.

I watched as the shock gave way to something softer then, finally, a mixture of annoyance and uncertainty.

“Your neighbors,” I told her.

She glanced up as the yelling continued.

“They will do this for approximately two hours,” she told me, trying to casually move away like we both didn’t know she’d used me as a body pillow for a few hours. “And then they will have sex for another hour. Then… silence.”

“Only an hour?” I asked, glancing over as she reached to flick on the light, casting her in a golden glow and highlighting the pink rising in her cheeks. “You’d think it would be longer after all this.” I waved a hand up at the ceiling.

Her lip curled.

“Not an arguing-as-foreplay person, huh?” I asked, loving how you could watch her embarrassment flood her cheeks.

“I hate arguing. It gives me a stomachache. I don’t know why anyone finds it appealing.”

“You hate arguing but taking people captive is no sweat.”

“Oh, I was sweating. And throwing up. And putting the finishing touches on an ulcer,” she said, pressing her casted hand against her stomach. Then wincing at the pressure.

“Here,” I said, reaching into my pocket to fetch the bottle of pills I’d brought with me. “Hopefully, you won’t pass out on me this time. We need to talk.”

“I… can’t…” she said, fumbling with the bottle cap.