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Want him now.
Want nothing but him.
How can I ache so much?
So if I report Rudy’s vulgar caresses, I lose access to Cam.
Plus, if I report Rudy, he’ll report all of my transgressions and get me in trouble, too.
What do I do?
Winnie looks up at me and cocks her head. I bend to give her snuggles and love, her tiny skull so close to my touch, her short hair and thin skin stretched tight, bulging eyes beautiful in their ugliness.
The dog is a far better companion than Rudy. The dog’s worst transgression is relieving itself on the carpet in the house.
Rudy has done the equivalent by touching me this way.
And just as a dog’s master demands submission, the pack unruly without an alpha who leads incontrovertibly, so do ours.
Our masters will make Rudy pay for touching me sexually.
They finish their conversation, Val waving to me and calling out, “I love that turquoise on you!”
The compliment is genuine.
So true, though. I do look stunning in turquoise. The keepers say so, which makes it true.
“Thank you so much,” I reply. “We’ll have to take you up on that drink sometime.”
“You do!” she responds.
As we turn away, it occurs to me that we’ve had this conversation six?...eight?... ten times? How many times has she been drinking a cocktail on her porch and offered one to us? We’ve always turned it down, and she always offers again.
It has become part of the daily routine.
We will never accept her offer. I cannot desecrate my body with alcohol.
My body is meant for so much more.
Normally, that thought sustains me. Strengthens me.
But now? My body is for Cam. His touch is all I want.
Which is why Rudy’s violation is so much worse.
The other reason we’ll never accept Val’s offer is that there will be no more “we” within the next twenty-four hours.
Because Rudy is a dead man.
Literally.
He threads his fingers in mine as we walk away. I hold the leash, and Winnie takes her time, smelling whatever scents a dog needs to investigate to feel fulfilled.
“What in the hell was that?” Rudy whispers through gritted teeth, a smile plastered on his face as he says it in my ear.
“You tell me,” I whisper back, Winnie’s obsession with the base of the post of our mailbox making it hard to get her to move. “You know you can’t touch me like that.”
“I can touch you however I damn well please.”
