Page 13 of UnRaveled
But the orgasms still come.
Drowning in the unwelcome pleasure.
Body traitorous.
Mind escaping.
Drinking more water.
Wishing for the chocolate covered strawberries.
Head becoming fuzzy. Just like walking back to the hotel.
Darkness closing in.
Feeling free. Weightless, cradled.
Peppermint again.
Cool Air. Bright lights.
The ding of an elevator.
“My girlfriend.” My captor’s voice. A soft, knowing chuckle. “Silly American pride made her think she could handle our vino.” The warmth of a kiss pressed to my forehead. Polite laughter. Murmured good lucks.
The ding of the elevator.
Sinking into softness.
Cocooned in blankets.
“Ora sei libero,” murmured against m
y ear.
Blackness.
Chapter Seven
I shift restlessly in the bed, my head groggy and body aching. I roll over onto my stomach and feel a crackling over my chest. My mind snaps awake with awareness and I bolt up in the bed with a groan. The light hits my eyes and I raise an arm to shield them from its harsh rays. My heart pounds and once my eyes can adjust, they dart frantically around the room.
My hotel room.
I immediately grab the bedding and hold it to my chest in a ridiculous form of protection from the silence and the unknown. It takes me a second to catch my breath, to even out my pulse, and to really believe that I’m here.
Alone.
My mind rifles over everything, memories and sensations crashing together like a demolition derby. I immediately curl into myself—knees to chest—arms protective around them. And if I didn’t feel the ache in my limbs, the tenderness between my thighs, the wax dried on my chest, and the bites of pain along my back, I’d swear it was all a dream. The abduction, being fucked every which way imaginable, and then nothing until waking up here in my bed in my hotel room.
I choke back at the bile that rises in my throat when those images materialize into actuality. When I realize that what I’d hoped was a dream is actually reality. My body protests but I’m off the bed in a heartbeat and running into the bathroom. I can’t turn the shower on quick enough, can’t wait to rid my body of the reminders that still brand me: the feel of his fingers, his scent mixed with mine, the dried wax, the salt on my skin. Mentally scattered, I step into the tiled enclosure without thought. The shock of cold jolts my mind to the present, my voice crying out and echoing over the tiles is a disconcerting sound.
Why didn’t I yell for help yesterday when I was being raped and held against my will, but I cry out now because of something as menial as a cold shower?
The question circles in my mind, my body sagging against the chilled wall behind me, my conscience trying to disengage from the facts. The guilt. The doubts. The truths.
Why didn’t I fight harder, resist more? Did I allow everything to happen? Is this on me?
The temperature of the water heats in an instant. Cold to hot. Frigid to inviting. Was that me yesterday? Resistant and unwilling, then accepting and compliant on a turn of a dime.
