Page 7 of You Were Warned: Part One

“Move please.”

With a nod, he shifts into a series of long, deep strokes that knock the air out of me. He draws almost all the way out and pushes back in, like he has all night and intends to use it. My legs come up around his waist, and the bed creaks under the steady rhythm. I let myself fully trust the man on top of me, tuning out everything around me, knowing he will take care of me. My head is both empty and full of him.

He watches my face the whole time. At first, it was too much, but he said it was non-negotiable, that he would never do anything if he couldn’t read me. I know I’m a complicated creature, so I gave him that one thing.

His pace builds, each stroke finding the spot that makes my toes curl, and he drops his mouth to my shoulder when I tighten around him. “That’s it,” he murmurs against my skin. His hand slides down between us, thumb finding my clit, and I come hard, clenching around him.

Rue pulls out and flips me over, pushing back inside me, then wraps his fist in my hair. He pulls my body up to meet him as he thrusts into me hard, each stroke sending shockwaves through me. My cries of pleasure echo around us, and after a few more strokes buried deep inside me, a low groan tears out of him, then neither of us moves.

He presses a kiss to my shoulder before he pulls out and slides off the bed. Occasionally he will pull me into his arms when he needs to hold me; we compromised on that, because I prefer to get dressed and get out. But on rare occasions, after he has had a shitty day, he asks if he can hold me. I don’t know a lot about his past besides the fact that he has a military background; he doesn’t offer information, and I don’t ask. It’s the same for my background—he obviously knows I have some trauma around sex, but all he said was that if I ever want to talk, he will listen. My reply was “Ditto,” and he nodded.

I slide off the bed and gather my clothes, quickly getting dressed. Rue follows me out into the living room, where I retrieve my jacket.

“Same time next week?” he asks, and I nod. We send a text if we have needs before the week is up, but this works for us. It’s a way to blow off some steam.

Pretty Boy chirps, and I shake my head. Stupid bird. I’m surprised he was so quiet.

“Go home, asshole,” he squawks.

“I will feed you to the spiders,” I throw back.

“Eat shit,” he replies.

Rue laughs. “He likes you.”

I scoff. “Suuure,” I drawl. “What sort of name is Pretty Boy, anyway?”

“He named himself. He kept saying it and it stuck,” Rue explains as he walks me to the door.

I pause at the doorframe. “What kind of person owned him before you? He has a terrible mouth—it’s probably the only thing I like about him.”

Rue smiles. “No idea. I found him on base and no one else could get close to him.”

“I will still feed him to Bertha one day,” I say, loud enough that the stupid parrot can hear me.

In turn, he just mumbles something that sounds like “Rude woman.”

“He better watch his back.”

“I don’t know, I think he could take her. He’s pretty scrappy when he needs to be. Tried to take on three grown men, so a spider should be no problem.”

I laugh. “We might need to place bets then,” I say as I walk out the door, lifting a hand as my goodbye.

The walk back is cold, and as I get to my house, I glance up and see the Jester’s lights are still off. I go inside, and sure enough, Cinnamon is in her tank. Big surprise: Margaret hasn’t moved.

I say hello to Bertha and tell her there is a nice big parrot in her future.

Rue

The dream always starts the same way. Silence. Not the explosion or the screaming before it. The sudden fucking nothing when I know three seconds prior there was too much noise to hear myself think. Then there isn’t anything, and I know, even asleep, I fucking know.

I wake with my fists already moving. Crow hits the floor hard enough to rattle the nightstand, and I’m on him before my eyes are even open. My forearm is across his face, my knee planted on his chest, and my other hand is drawn back to hit him again. He doesn’t fight me; his hands lie flat against the floor and his face is turned away, his prosthetic twisted awkwardly beneath us.

One second. Two. Three.

“Fuck.”

I’m not there, I’m not fucking there.