Neon Blue by E J Frost

Author:E J Frost [Frost, E J]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2014-12-01T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter 24

He fucks me unmercifully. For hours. Or what feels like hours in my alcohol-induced daze. Each moment feels broken, each movement disjointed, and I know I’m passing out, graying into unconsciousness, only to be pulled back by his unrelenting fucking.

The bed spins. His cock pounds into me. Whatever’s down there licks me. I lose track of what’s happening. Of who and where I am.

When he turns me over to take me from behind, I bury my face in the pillow and plead with the fuzzy darkness that keeps trying to suck me down to keep me.

Eventually, it does.

I wake to a pounding hangover, and an empty bed.

Sitting up makes my head and stomach whirl, and I squint against the Sunday morning light shafting through my curtains. Why does the light on Sundays feel sharper, more judgmental, than any other day of the week?

Jou? I clutch at my throbbing temples. The room stinks of sex, and the smoky smell of his skin.

Yeah?

Where are you?

In the basement.

What’s he doing in the basement? There’s nothing down there but the washer-dryer and the oil tank.

Is everything okay?

Yeah.

I can’t tell anything from his response. But the idea of him being down my basement makes me nervous, even through the hangover. I begin getting out of bed, ungluing myself from the sheets. My thighs are smeared with sticky red goo. It doesn’t look quite like come or quite like blood or quite like anything I’ve seen before. I put a hand down to push myself up and more of the goo squishes between my fingers.

What the hell is all over the bed?

His liquid chocolate chuckle, warm and soothing through my aching head. I’da cleaned up but I didn’t want to wake you. Take a shower, you’ll feel better.

Is this? It dawns on me what it is. What it must be. Eww. This is your . . . stuff, isn’t it?

My stuff? That’s poetic. Demon seed. Hellspore. The Burning Grain. I’ve heard it called all kinda things, but never my stuff before.

Don’t make fun of me. My head hurts too much. I grind the fingertips of my ungoo-ed hand into my eyes. I thought you didn’t come. That it gave you amnesia.

It does.

Do you— I begin hesitantly. Do you know who I am?

If he doesn’t, do I really want to know? Maybe that’s what he’s doing in the basement. Trying to get back home. In which case, shouldn’t I just leave him to it?

Yeah, I know who you are. It only lasts an hour or two. You slept through it.

And the reason he was so insistent on getting me drunk last night finally dawns in my throbbing, foggy brain. He wanted me unconscious while he was vulnerable.

Oh. I manage to extricate myself from the bed. Standing makes my stomach protest. Makes me feel delicate and shaky in a very bad way. I don’t think I’m up to a shower yet.

Hair of the dog’s in the kitchen.

I don’t understand what he means, but a good, familiar smell is beginning to penetrate my hangover.

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