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It’s him invading my every thought.
Ronan lifting my skirt.
Ronan bending me over the sofa.
Ronan fucking me so hard, I scream.
The fantasy is rough and dirty, yet so damn good, I almost don’t want it to end.
The steady stream of water pounding against my clit sends me over the edge so fast, I have to bite my lip to hold in my scream. My entire body goes rigid as I come, pressing a hand against the shower wall to keep me upright. The orgasm pulses and pulses and pulses for what feels like forever.
When it finally ends, I lower the showerhead and suck in a lungful of hot steamy air.
Just as I turn the dial on the shower, a feeling of overwhelming weakness settles in. My arms are like lead as I reach for my towel hanging on the hook. At first, I tell myself it’s the steam and the exhaustion making me fatigued, but then the tunnel vision hits like a freight train.
And I know it’s not the steam at all.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I mutter as every muscle in my body hangs like deadweight, and I pray the episode passes quickly. My forehead starts to sweat, and my hands start to shake. “Not now. Not now,” I mutter.
That’s when I go down. My ears are ringing with that sort of faint fuzzy static sound, but when I tumble into the shower door, I know it’s loud because it echoes through my ears until everything goes dark.
I’m only out for a moment. Normally when I pass out, it feels like I’ve been out for hours. But this time, my skin is still warm and wet, so I know it’s only been a couple seconds.
And just when I think I’m in the clear, the bathroom door flies open.
“Jesus, Daisy!” Ronan shouts as he rushes over and scoops my frail, naked body off the floor.
“I’m fine!” I shriek, but his hand is on my bare ass, and after the fantasy I just streamed on the dirty movie screen of my mind two minutes ago, it’s a little jarring.
“Did you pass out?” he asks, carrying me over to the bathroom counter.
“I’m tired. I just fell!” I sound way too panicked and hysterical. I know that, but I’m deep in the throes of a hypoglycemic episode. My blood sugar is probably critically low, which means my emotions are off the rails.
But he doesn’t need to know all of that.
My arms move to cover my breasts as he starts inspecting my head. “I heard that all the way in my room. Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I said I’m fine! Will you please get me a towel?” My command is sharp, and it gets his attention. Looking a little stunned, he pulls away, reaches for the towel, and brings it back to cover my body. “Please leave. I’m fine.”
His brow furrows as if he’s confused, which I’m sure he is. And I can see him hesitating. He doesn’t want to leave me, and my guess is, he won’t go far. I’m not used to being so…taken care of.
“Okay, I’m going.” With his hands up in surrender, he backs up toward the door.
I’m fighting back tears until I hear the click of the door. It takes all the effort I have to stumble toward my bag sitting on the back of the toilet. Once I reach it, I clumsily dig inside for the glucose gummies squished in the bottom alongside the crumbs and receipts. Once I hear the crinkle of the package, I let my back crash to the wall, sliding all the way down as I tear open the plastic, devouring the sugary fruit snacks like an animal.
Then I collapse against the cold tile floor and wait for the sugar to hit my system.
While I’m down here, I think about my mother and how disappointed she would be. I always was bad about eating and watching my blood sugar. And for that reason, I’ve been blessed with the good fortune of passing out every time it would drop. Since I haven’t had a bite since the burger Ronan made me, it hit me hard this time.
For no reason whatsoever, I start to cry. Just warm tears sliding down the sides of my face and onto the floor.
That’s when it all hits. Grief is a ruthless predator, attacking when I’m at my weakest. Cruel, impossible questions cycle through my mind. Why did my mom have to get cancer? Why did she have to die? Why do I have to be alone?
I don’t know how long I lie here and sob, but I slowly feel the energy return to my body as the sugar hits my bloodstream. I rise carefully from the floor and find my pajamas, pulling them on in a drunken haze.
When I open the bedroom door, he’s there.
He doesn’t say a word, just stands against the wall as if he’s waiting for me. It must be obvious just how much I’ve been crying, and he must be incredibly confused, but it doesn’t matter. Because he doesn’t say a word, just opens his arms for me, and I step into them like a moth to a flame.
