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He needed no further encouragement. He sat up to meet me, embedding himself into my cunt with such force that I cried his name. Keeping me straddled across his lap, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and planted his feet onto the ground, holding me at an angle that allowed him the most freedom. With a strong arm at my back and another around my waist, he guided my body, raising then lowering, repeatedly filling me with his insatiable lust. I discovered the rhythm, pressing my knees into the mattress to follow it.
“I will never have enough of you,” he murmured, his confession both riling and soothing me.
“You can’t know that,” I replied breathlessly, testing my heart with pessimism to see if there were still any holes for doubt to crawl through.
He slowed the measure of his movements into long, intentional strokes, eyes raising to lock with mine, mesmerizing but severe. He appeared almost angry, bedeviled.
“Even when I come to know every inch of you, every sound,” he said, his tone as intense as his expression, moving inside me in a way that encouraged one of those very sounds from my lips, his hand raking through my short hair, twisting the strands “Even then, it won’t be enough. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” I gasped.
“I will go to my grave needing you, Millie” he rasped, and I believed him.
He brought my face to his and kissed me with all the passion of his promises sweet on his lips, and I drank it in. My love was encouraged by his words, my lust by his ferocity and in that wild roiling desire, I bit his bottom lip. He inhaled sharply, the iron taste of blood touching my tongue.
“Wicked girl,” he growled, before claiming my mouth again with little gentleness. Our lovemaking became primal, his hands bruising. Every small pain that his fingers brought in the way they dug into my waist or pinched my sensitive skin was proof of my life. The nips of his teeth on my own lips and neck, the jarring force of him plunging into me, all made me feel human, anchored in the reality of sensation. He coaxed me violently to climax, pulling me close to feel me shudder and tighten around him.
“My God,” he groaned, ramming into me twice more before finding ecstasy of his own.
He held me, my head resting in the crook of his shoulder, his hands running down the length of my bare back. I was exhausted, body satiated but thoughts still uneasy. He had loved his wife in this same way, and it hadn’t been enough.
“Do you plan to make me bleed every time we make love, kitten?” He asked, playful and languid in the afterglow of our pleasure.
I tried to enjoy the game.
“You promised to bleed for me. Change your mind?”
“On the contrary,” he replied, and I could hear the lawless smile in his voice. “I look forward to the next time.”
“So do I.”
His rumbling laugh vibrated through my body, and he placed a long, tender kiss near my temple.
“You’ll be the death of me,” he muttered.
I tilted my chin up, pressing my nose against his warm neck, feeling the whisper of his pulse and trying to rekindle the peace that had been destroyed by his wife’s words on his lips.
***
When the sun had risen fully, Dr. Hannigan arrived to check up on me. He was the gravest I’d ever seen him, but despite his demeanor, his diagnosis was heartening. My fever had broken, and I’d eaten several meals with no trouble. Since the days were becoming more friendly, he told me I needed to spend as much time outside as possible to avoid the dust of the resumed renovations and keep fresh air in my lungs. After encouraging me to take a small aspirin, he told me he thought the worst was over.
“Dr. Hannigan,” I said before he could leave, feeling that if there was anyone I could speak to it would be him. He turned back towards me, his bushy eyebrows raised in an open way that encouraged me to tell him what was on my mind. “I worry I may be relapsing. As you know by now my sleepwalking is getting worse, and even in the day…I hear things. Can you tell me what’s happening?”
My throat began to close, my eyes burned, and he tutted and patted me consolingly.
“Don’t worry yourself,” he said gently. “You’ve been through so much, and I believe the upheaval of your life recently has caused your troubles. That in combination with the detestable state of this place,” he added. “Callum has let the bitter memories set to rot here. I see the happiness returning to his face, and he has hope for this place, but I fear it may be at a high cost. It’s better, in my mind, if he took you away from here and left Willowfield to molder and die alone.”
His inclusion of Callum in the recommendation of my recovery exasperated me.
“Does everyone know, then?” I asked with some petulance.
This actually inspired the man to laugh, the sound of his honest humor breaking up the weight on my shoulders.
“Millie, my dear, you’ve spent the last two nights together in this room.”
A flush traveled up my neck and into my face. My ears burned.
“Ah,” said Dr. Hannigan. “Now that’s a healthy look about you. Not to worry, my girl, there’s no judgment. This is an age of new ideas. Let the past drown in its own self-righteousness.”
