Page 62 of Ruthless Dream

I darken the screen, dead set on not replying. But a new message pops up, and I’m weak, meaning I check it immediately.

He’s sent a video, and I freeze, incredibly grateful to be alone in a cubicle, because how the hell did I not realize he’s got cameras in his apartment?

I’m in bed, a tangled mess burrowed under the blankets like I like. Ciaran comes into view, already in his button-down, rolling his sleeves up. He perches on the edge of the bed, pulling the covers back.

He smooths my hair back, kissing my forehead.

I have no recollection of this tenderness. Not even a hazy memory of his body being so close.

The moment I’d closed my eyes, I’d been dead to the world until my alarm woke me up. I’d scrambled out of bed, exhaustion clinging to my limbs.

It’s not exactly like I could miss class because I needed to recover from a sex-fueled weekend.

He’d fucked me into oblivion, but instead of sneaking off, treating me like some one-night stand, he’d fixed the bedsheets before he’d left.

Ciaran: To clarify, your definition of the perfect boyfriend doesn’t do this?

My cheeks puff out as I huff.

Before I can respond, another video pops up.

Ciaran: Maybe you’d like this instead?

My mouth drops open, heat licking my skin.

It’s much darker, but the camera picks us out perfectly. My heart begins to hammer as I watch Ciaran roll over in the night. We’d talked about it over the weekend. Him using my body even if I was asleep. But talking about it and watching it are two different things.

The bedcovers come off me, and he nips my breasts, tugging my nipples in his mouth.

My back arches at the movement, but my eyes remain closed. Just like this morning, I have no memory of this. I’m in an endless sleep while Ciaran’s hands roam my body as he settles in between my thighs.

I’m a drumbeat inside as I watch him spread my legs further and slide his cock inside me.

My face burns as I realize that I might be asleep, but my hips roll on their own accord. My back arches again as he hammers into me, a messy, rough fucking.

I’d tripped into the shower this morning, rushing. There’d been so many couplings the night before that I’d assumed the dried cum on my thighs was from one of those events. I have marks all over me, my nipples tender like so many other spots of flesh.

Adeline: So much for making sure you take care of me.

Ciaran: I did take care of you.

Adeline: Then why’d you leave me this morning to wash your dried cum off by myself?

Adeline: You ruin everything.

I turn my phone off before I can see whatever bullshit response he’s got.

“You okay?” one of the interns asks when I stand up.

“Do you have a fever?” the other asks, it dawning on her that I might actually be sick and not hungover.

Only it’s much more mortifying than some red cheeks. The moment I stood up I felt it—how wet I’d gotten from watching the video Ciaran sent.

“I’m going to go,” I tell them faintly.

“Maybe you should go to the doctors?” one suggests.

What I really need to do is go to a priest and ask for a motherfucking exorcism.