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It’s like I don’t want to get dressed because part of me wants Daniel to come out of that shower and touch me. Show me what it’s like to actually have great sex. Show me everything he can do. Hell, touch me a bit more without strings attached. I’d like all of that. But I can’t ask. I’m the poster child for Stockholm syndrome, right? I should be loathing every man’s touch at the moment, instead of lusting after a man that treats me with tenderness.
I should be thinking of my boyfriend.
The thought occurs to me, and I flush with guilt, huddling a little lower under the sheets. I haven’t thought of Mike much at all, lately. Does he miss me? Mourn me like I’m dead? Shouldn’t I be dying to get back to him instead of having all these mixed-up feelings about Daniel? Mike’s a good-looking guy. We’ve been together since high school. Hell, I picked the college I went to because Mike wanted to go there.
But Mike never gives you orgasms, my traitorous brain whispers. He never kisses you like Daniel did.
Has to be Stockholm, I tell myself. I hear the water going in the other room and figure Daniel must be showering himself at this point. He won’t be out for a few minutes. I can call Mike and . . . let him know I’m alive. That’s what a good girlfriend would do.
I pick up Daniel’s phone and dial the number to Mike’s apartment. He won’t answer his cell unless he knows who the caller is, so I’ll try there first. After four rings, it goes to voice mail.
“Hi! You’ve reached Mike and Becca. Leave a message after the beep!”
I hang up, horrified but not entirely surprised. Mike and my best friend Becca? Mike and my oldest girlfriend? The one that was always telling me how lucky I am to have a guy as great as Mike?
How easy must it have been for them to get together if they’re both mourning me? All it’d take would be a bottle of wine, some mutual sad commiseration, and then naturally, of course, they fucking move in together.
I shouldn’t be hurt, but I am. Mike might have assumed I was dead . . . but it hasn’t even been two months. And he never let me move in with him, even though we’d been dating for years. I need space, babe, he’d tell me. And I went along with it because that’s what Regan Porter did. She was a nice girl that went along with things.
But Becca’s moved in with my commitment-phobe boyfriend after less than two months.
I toss the phone aside. Then I lie down, my head on the pillow, staring at the wall. I don’t know what I’m feeling right now. Can I feel betrayed by people who think I’m dead? Did they even look for me?
A low groan touches my ears, and I sit up. That was Daniel. I get up from the bed, sheets wrapped around my body, and tiptoe to the door of the bathroom. The water’s still going, but I hear that low groan again.
He’s jerking off in the shower.
I’m fascinated by that, and a little jealous. Sex hasn’t been ruined for Daniel. He can still enjoy touching himself, I think enviously. I haven’t wanted to masturbate since I was taken. I used to be a champion masturbator, since sex was never really that great. I didn’t blame Mike for that, though. I sort of . . . went along with it. No orgasm? That’s okay, really. Regan Porter doesn’t mind. Regan doesn’t mind anything. She’ll finish herself off real quick while you take a nap.
Stupid Regan, I think to myself. Now it’s too late and you’re scared of everything. Scared of spiders, scared of men, scared of what happens if you let Daniel out of your sight.
I’m so tired of being scared. Of being unloved.
I suddenly feel heavy with unhappiness and return to the bed. I tuck a pillow under my head and lie down and close my eyes, curling up in the sheets. I wish the world would go away for a few days. I wish I didn’t care that Mike and Becca had paired up. I wish . . .
I wish I was back in that shower with Daniel.
I picture him behind my eyelids, his strong arms flexing as he lathers up his cock and jerks himself to fulfillment. I wish I could see it. I’m not sure if I should want that, but I’m tired of being the nice girl that does what she’s supposed to. It’s gotten me fuck all in life so far.
The water stops, and two minutes later, the door to the bathroom opens. “Regan?” Daniel asks, clearly surprised to see me tucked into bed. “Didn’t you want to go get breakfast?”
