Текст книги "Milked for the Holidays"

Автор книги: Vivian Murdoch

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MILKED FOR THE HOLIDAYS A MF ALIEN ABDUCTION DARK ROMANCE

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VIVIAN MURDOCH

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The right of Vivian Murdoch to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him/her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs, and Patents Act 1988.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it was published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, items, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Cover Design by: Pretty in Ink Creations

Formatting by: Formatting the Forbidden

Edited by: Jessica Goodman

Copyright © 2023 Vivian Murdoch

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by

any means without written permission of the author.

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For those readers who love it dark, twisted, and just a little milky.

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Husdom

Thank you for all your heartfelt support. My author life wouldn’t be what it is without your unflinching devotion. Also thank you for never batting an eye when I bring the weird stuff home to you.

Awesome Alphas

I know I send y’all the weird stuff. Thank you for taking time out of your busy lives to help me make these books the awesome stories they are.

Thank you, Ashley, Bianca, Rita, and Tricia! A separate thank you to Chloe for giving your paralegal insight and taking on this project!

Shout Out

You knocked this one out of the park! Like always. lmao. Here’s to another year and so many more books. You have my heart!

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CONTENTS

Trigger Warnings

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Epilogue

About the Author

Omegaverse Romance

Omegaverse Romance Cont.

Contemporary Romance

PNR Romance

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TRIGGER WARNINGS

Warning!!!

This book is intended for adult audiences and contains adult themes. The acts in this book are not meant to depict an actual dynamic and can be dangerous if done incorrectly. Please play responsibly. Author is not held responsible for readers’ actions.

Kinks, Fetishes, Triggers:

Includes not limited to…

Grief, Loss of a Parent (not on page) Emotional Hurt/Comfort, NonCon/DubCon, Kidnap, Humiliation, Degradation, Forced HuCow, Forced Lactation, Forced Milking, Somnophilia

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CHAPTER 1

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JESSICA

Frigid wind whips about my face, nearly blinding me as I struggle with the trunk. Baubles of all sorts hang off of my arms and shoulders, making me festooned just like a run-down Christmas tree. Heaving a sigh, I blow out my breath, my lips curling into a smile at the steam pouring from my mouth.

After a few more tugs, the rusted hunk of metal pops open, allowing me to deposit my goods. The old trunk heaves and groans and I press down, forcing it to latch. After bobbing up and down a few times, it finally gets the message and stays shut… but for how long?

With a low grunt, I turn around and rest my back against the curve of the trunk and breathe out again. Rounding my lips out into an O, I huff out the air, sending puff balls drifting into the air. How many times did I pretend to have a cigarette when I was younger?

Mom would always chide me, saying ladies don’t smoke. It was my little secret, a game I played whenever she wasn’t looking. But she knew. She always knew.

Glancing up at the waning sun, I squint against the soft flakes as they assault my lashes. For the first time in the last six months, a chuckle bubbles up, rusty at first, but slowly warming into a cheerful sound.

So many memories surround me like a warm hug, almost as if I can feel her arms around me again. Closing my eyes, I picture our snowball fights when I was a kid, milk and cookies for Santa until I was ‘too old for that baby stuff,’ and finally, mugs of hot cocoa as we sat together in companionable silence and watched the snow blanket the earth.

They’re much better than the most recent memories, which continue to plague me every time I go to sleep. Heaving another sigh, I don’t even care to watch as the steam curls up and disappears, the faint tendrils drifting up to the sky. As much as I want to stay outside, to let the chill freeze my skin to match my insides, I have to go home.

Mom’s final wish was for me to never forget the magic of Christmas. It’s not so magical without her, though. And as much as it hurts, I have to face the empty house at some point.

Who knows, maybe I can find a new way to spend the holidays? Not all traditions have to be passed down through family. I can find my own way to celebrate.

Yeah right.

I push myself away from the car and make my way to the driver's seat. At thirty-five with no prospect of a family and not even a hint of a child to pass anything down to—fur-babies excluded—it feels a little late to come up with some new thing. Thankfully, there’s still stuff in the freezer to eat, so I’m not heating up some lonely meal for one. That’s certainly not something I want to make into a tradition.

My heart clenches as I crank the car, praying it actually starts. Pursing my lips, I apply my foot to the gas and pump as I turn the key. The faint whine as it struggles to choke to life fills my ears, while my gut begins to churn.

With all the money going to the funeral and upkeep on the house, a new car is the last thing I can afford right now. At least until the insurance comes in. And even then, I don’t know how far that will stretch after taking care of all the medical expenses looming over me.

My throat threatens to close as images of bills and past due notices flash before my eyes. Hell, I even eat in the dark with candles to save electricity. Resting my head on the steering wheel, I allow a few tears to drip from my eyes and slide down my nose, blurring my vision.

If I can just hold out for a little longer. The most it should take to determine cause of death should be ninety days, but it feels like it’s taking an eternity. But I guess that’s my fault for allowing her to die at home in peace instead of in a hospital.

My phone rings, but I ignore it. No doubt it’s another creditor looking for money I don’t have right now. It might be friends checking in on me, but I don’t want to deal with that just yet, either.

Again, I turn the key and resist the urge to stomp my foot against the gas pedal when it refuses to crank. “Please,” I manage to croak out into the chill. “It’s Christmas. Just… Please.”

Up until this point, I’ve managed to hold myself together. I’d hate to lose it over this hunk of junk that should have been decommissioned years ago. Turning my face, I rest my cheek against the worn leather and breathe in the familiar scent.

Though very faded, I can just barely catch a whiff of her perfume. Granted, it’s overshadowed by the stench of oil and age, but it’s there underneath. Soon, just like the food waiting for me in the freezer, it will be gone. All I’ll have left are these memories and traditions.

Pulling myself back up, I tip my head up to the roof of the car, once more whispering my plea. Whether or not some benevolent being is smiling down at me, or there really is Christmas magic, the car cranks with barely any protest. Relief floods my system as a smile eases across my face.

Perhaps this bodes well for the holiday? Shoving out all thoughts of being alone, I stare out the window as I drive home. All the houses twinkle and sparkle, their decorations outdoing the next neighbor.

When Mom was still healthy, we gave them a run for their money. Every year we plotted out our plan of attack, just as well as any general strategizing for battle. Though there was never an official winner, we always knew it was us.

Cars would stop on the side of the road just to see our wild displays. And on the odd occasion we were late putting things up, people asked. They checked in to make sure we were okay.

It still warms my heart with how many people still flock to my door with goodies and meals, just checking in on me to make sure I’m okay. I’m not, but I can at least put on a good face. It’s what Mom would have wanted.

Pausing at the driveway, I stare up at the bare bones of the house. Not one decoration in sight. Next to me, on either side, my neighbors host all sorts of decorations—Santa, reindeer, snowmen, and even a massive Nativity scene encroaches on my yard, just barely staying on their side of the property line.

They offered to decorate for me, to do something to make it look festive. But I couldn’t do it. It was Mom’s and my thing. No one else could do it like her. No one else could make it magical.

Maybe next year, after the wounds heal a little, I can decorate again. But for now, I just don’t have the heart. That is, if I even decide to stay. I’m still debating selling the house, ridding myself of the pain.

For now, however, I’ll just dream of what it could have been if she was still with me. This year, I’ll make myself content with bringing some holiday magic on the inside. Just enough to warm the place up.

Pulling into the garage, I watch as the snow swirls even harder. I grip my jacket tighter, that old sense of mirth rising back to the surface. Our favorite Christmas memories were when it was snowing.

Giddy for the first time in a while, I argue with the trunk, no longer caring that it sticks. I’m home now, so it can break down for all I care. Making several trips, I bring all my goodies into the living room before heading back to the large freezer to find my meal.

Since the funeral, people from all over have given me casseroles and desserts, enough to keep me fed without having to spend that much extra money. I’m beyond grateful, but none of what they made appeals to me right now.

Sliding my gaze over to a small section off to the side, I run my fingers over the foil covering Mom’s last dish. The very last bit of food she had made before she was too weak to move. Granted, after six months, it will probably not taste nearly as good, but right now, all I want is one last taste of her lasagna.

I make quick work of the oven, getting everything set up so it can heat while I decorate. There’s no shortage of holiday movies I can put on in the background, but it’s not as if I’m really watching, anyway. I’m far too consumed with placing the delicate baubles on the tree.

As I sift through the memories, I second-guess myself for a moment. Maybe it’s all too soon? More tears gather as I pluck out a special ornament, the one Mom and I made together when I was five.

Turning the ceramic piece over in my hands, I run my thumb over the faded signatures and date. Her handwriting was always so dainty, whereas mine looks every bit like a kid wrote it. Not that it got much better as I grew up.

I wipe at my eyes, detesting how the tears blur my vision. Eventually, however, I give up and hang it on the tree. Again, I force myself to look past the memories and give Mom a tree she deserves.

Tugging at the new lights and tinsel, I put the finishing touches on and plug it in. The money probably should have gone to something else, something more substantial, but I couldn’t help the need to make this Christmas just as good as if Mom were still here.

The soft glow illuminates the living room, giving it a cheery feel. Though not perfect, Mom would have loved it. And honestly, that’s all that matters right now.

As my eyes drift to all the different details, I draw in a shaky breath and rest my hand against the top of my shoulder, imagining it’s hers. “O Christmas Tree, O Christmas Tree,” I sing out, my voice warbled and thick with unshed tears. “How lovely are thy branches.”

Choking on the last line, I shake my head and refuse to continue. It just hurts too fucking badly. It doesn’t matter that I can almost hear her voice singing along with mine, the slightly flat sound discordant with my own. I just can’t. It’s far too soon.

I dip down and grab a wad of tinsel and wrap bits of it around me, making a makeshift necklace and corresponding dress. It’s silly, but that’s what I need to break myself from this spell. Walking over to the window, I study my reflection as I twist and turn, acting as if I’m at some fancy event in a sparkling gown.

Thankfully, the ding from the oven signals time for me to grab dinner and stop with this foolish nonsense. As the thick, gooey lasagna cools on my plate, I dig around in the grocery bag and pull out a small bottle of peppermint schnapps. Nothing like peppermint hot cocoa to put me in the holiday mood. Granted… the chocolate probably won’t go as well with the main meal.

Bringing my dinner into the living room, I curl up on the couch with a thick blanket. Since cutting down on the electric bill, I’ve made my peace with warm clothing, thick comforters, and a fire roaring away in the fireplace. All in all, it’s quite cozy.

The fork slides through the mountain of noodles, cheese, and sauce, and for a moment, I worry if I can actually bring myself to taste it. Not only is this the last thing my mother made, it’s also been in the freezer the longest. Part of me wants to eat it, but inside I’m scared.

Will it not be as good as I remember? Will it be just exactly as I remember? Which is worse? Honestly, I can’t tell, and that’s what makes my gut churn as I watch the steam waft off into the air.

I blow on it, stalling as I take my time bringing it up to my lips. Just one taste and the tears roll down my cheeks. It’s as if she just served it up. Like she’s still in the kitchen getting her own plate.

Soon, she’ll be striding in here, grinning from ear to ear as we snuggle on the couch. Dropping the fork back on the plate, I look over at the empty table. No milk and cookies adorn the worn wood. Yet one more thing that’s not the same.

Yes, I could have grabbed a thing of cookie dough, but what’s the point? So fucking much is not the same, and yet, the things that are gut me from the inside out. The lasagna has no fucking right tasting this good.

It should be stale, rotten, allowing me to mourn my mother in peace. But no. It’s just as good as any other dish she made. Stuffing my face, I let the tears fall as my heart cracks in two.

I’ve not let myself break down. Not really, so in some ways, it feels good to allow my heart to pour out until I’m depleted. My fingers tremble as I grab yet another plate, eating until every last bit of the small dish is gone.

That’s it. There’s nothing left. Everything else in the freezer is from friends and strangers.

There’s nothing fucking left.

Drawing in a deep breath, I grab my cocoa, now tepid, and dump it out, making a fresh one to sip on. Again, I pour a decent dollop of alcohol into the mug, needing a bit of liquid courage to shore me up through the night.

After cleaning up the dishes and putting everything away, I go back to the living room, drink in hand. I draw my feet up on the couch and sip my cocoa as I stare out the window. Snow falls even heavier, blanketing everything in a pristine white. The schnapps warms my insides, driving away any chance at a chill as I turn back to the television.

As always, on Christmas Eve, I queue up A Christmas Carol. Despite the pain it causes, I don’t want to break with tradition. It will already be broken enough tomorrow when I wake up to an empty house with no Mom’s Special Pancakes waiting for me. I didn’t even get a chance to make them with her before she died, and there’s no way in hell I’ll attempt it tomorrow.

Perhaps I’ll just sleep the day away, granting myself the gift of solitude. While others spring from their beds and race toward the tree to unwrap their gifts, I’ll probably just start working on packing things up so I can sell the house. But even that thought makes my insides cramp as a fresh wave of tears prick my eyes.

It would be stupid not to sell. This house is in a prime location and will fetch a great price. Besides, since moving back in with Mom, I had to give up my apartment. There was no way I could afford rent when I wasn’t working.

As devastating as it is to contemplate, I need to move on with my life. Ten months I’ve been away from work on a federal medical leave of absence. Ten months I’ve been a caretaker for my mother. Six months I’ve taken care of her when she could no longer care for herself. Two months I’ve dealt with hospice as I watched my strong, vibrant mother wither away into nothing.

Now, for about a month, I’ve been mourning her memory and trying to figure out what’s next. Plans need to be made, and time is running out to make them. Once everything is settled here, I know I can go back to my old job. The lawyers there made it very clear I was an asset they didn’t want to give up.

Even if I don’t want to go back home and live my life again, I can always find work anywhere. I have excellent references and the drive to succeed. At least, I hope I still have that.

I don’t want that part of me to die along with my mother. She’d be heartbroken to see me wasting my life as I look for meaning in her death. Glancing back over to the window, my heart squeezes so hard I lose my breath for a moment.

Part of me still contemplates staying here and using the money from her insurance to fix this house back up, not to sell, but to live. I know I can find work at a local law firm. Unfortunately, I don’t think my heart can handle it.

Everywhere I turn, there are memories. I can’t even buy groceries without people shaking their heads and giving me those sympathetic looks. I can deal with it for the most part, but when they touch my arm and tell me how my mom was such a good woman… it’s just far too much to bear.

I know she was a good woman. She raised me. I couldn’t have asked for a better mom, friend, and confidant. Raising me by herself didn’t seem to affect her at all. We were best buddies until the very end.

Setting the empty snowman mug on the table, I curl in on myself, forcing my brain to shut down as I watch Ebenezer Scrooge berate poor Bob Cratchit. Whenever Mom and I watched this together, she was always fussing at both of them—Scrooge for being such a tight-ass dickwad, and Cratchit for not having a freaking spine.

A smile drifts across my lips as my eyes grow heavy. “Just you wait, Scrooge,” I mutter toward the screen. “You’ll get your comeuppance.”

My eyelids feel heavy as the ghosts warn Scrooge of the events of his night. Unable to keep them open any longer, they close as the first chime of the clock sounds, signaling his doom. With a heavy sigh, I drift off to sleep.

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CHAPTER 2

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JESSICA

An incessant hum floods my ears as I groan and squeeze my eyes shut. It must be my brain is throbbing from the alcohol. Since I only drink on special occasions, it would stand to reason the mug of hot cocoa would give me the hangover from hell.

I long to shake my head, but don’t dare move. I want to stay in this warm cocoon as long as I can. Even now, I can almost hear the chime of the clock from the television intermingled with Mom’s laugh.

The sounds converge, morphing into soft whispers and muddled sounds. No doubt I’m hearing Scrooge prattling on about this or that. Though I try to crack open an eye to watch the antics, I find my lids far too heavy to move.

A groan bubbles up from my throat as I turn my head, burrowing deeper into the blankets. I’m warm, just shy of burning up. Sleepiness wars with discomfort as I lie there, forcing my breathing to even so I can slip back into the abyss.

At least in my sleep, I’m not plagued by emotional pain or memories. I can dream of a life where Mom is still alive, and I’m back home doing research for a case. If only she were still here.

A blazing tear slips down my cheek unchecked. I haven’t the energy or desire to wipe it away. Again, a murmur of voices flit around my ears, making my heart slam in my chest. I don’t remember anyone in the movie having that deep of a voice.

Perhaps it’s the Ghost of Christmas Future? But then… he didn’t talk. Did he? I rack my brain, desperate to understand what I’m hearing. It almost sounds inhuman, but that’s just silly.

It’s got to be the peppermint schnapps. That’s the only logical explanation. My eyelids twitch as consciousness seeps in, ripping the last of my pleasant dreams from me. I have to wake up at some point.

Besides, with how my bladder is screaming at me, I can’t just lie here forever. Again, I groan as I realize I’ll have to walk over to the frigid bathroom, far away from the cozy warmth of the fire. I move to pull the blankets from me when everything stops.

I can’t move.

Desperation clouds my brain, turning it to mush as I lie there. There has to be some mistake. I must still be asleep or something. Sleep paralysis? It’s a thing, right?

Granted, it’s never happened to me before, but these circumstances aren’t exactly normal. It would stand to reason that my body seeks to betray me right now. Again, I try to open my eyes, managing to pry them just enough to be blinded by a searing brightness.

I screw them shut, my head throbbing as light continues to flash behind my closed lids. Definitely the alcohol mixed with bright sun bouncing off blinding white snow. Chuckling to myself, I try to lift my hand again, but find it still won’t move.

What the fuck is wrong with me? I’m obviously not asleep. This time, as I open my eyes, I grit my teeth and bear the agony of the light melting my eyes. Everything swims as nausea bubbles up my throat, threatening to eject the lasagna, which now sits heavy in my gut.

Perhaps it’s food poisoning? It was stupid of me to eat the lasagna after so long… but it tasted just fine. My pulse throbs in my temples as I ease my head back and forth.

After a few moments, my vision begins to clear. However, I wish I was able to go back to ignorant bliss. No longer does my television shine over at me, playing Christmas movies on repeat. It’s not the wintery glare from the living room window which threatens to rob me of my sight.

No.

I’m not home.

Not anymore.

I have no fucking clue where I am, and nothing I’m seeing gives me any information. Turning my head this way and that, I take in all the blinking lights and switches. Wherever I am is coated in steel. Every freaking inch is polished until it seems to glow.

Am I in the hospital? Did something happen to me? A mixture of terror and sorrow flood my system, making my vision blur. Everything was fine. It was fine. What could have possibly happened?

This time, I’m fully awake as I try to move. I jerk on my arm, terror coating the inside of my mouth, turning every swallow of spit into acid. My arm still doesn’t move, but at least it doesn’t feel like I’m paralyzed. More like I’m being restrained.

Thoughts race through my mind at the speed of light, far too fast to grasp any and pin them down. All it does is make my heart race and my breathing come in shallow gasps. Unbidden, my Mom’s face swims into view.

She should be a beacon, a vision of hope. Instead, it guts me to the core. Does this mean I’ll be seeing her soon? As much as I miss her, as much as I want to feel her arms wrapping around me, I still want to live.

I have so much left to live for. I had plans. Granted, they weren’t astounding, but I was going to get my life back together. I was going to get back to what I loved. Hell, I know several lawyers who would be happy to have me assist them. It was all going to be a new beginning. But now this.

Tipping my chin, I stare down at my naked body, most of the view blocked by my breasts. Across the top of my chest, a strap holds me immobile, and based on the sensations when I twitch, they go all the way down.

Help! I scream out, but the sound never leaves my lips.

It’s trapped in my mind, unable to be free.

“Help.” This time, a slight sound comes out, almost like a croak.

It’s barely audible, but I feel the air slip past my lips.

“Help!” My voice echoes in the room, bouncing off of the metal, echoing as it comes back. Like my own voice taunts me.

Again, that deep rumble from earlier buzzes about, but I can’t see where it’s coming from. I can’t understand it either, but that could be my hysterics getting in the way. Wetting my bottom lip with my tongue, I try again.

“Please, help me.”

Instead of responding, the person moves, a quick jolt of motion in my periphery. Turning towards it, everything in me stops. This has to be a dream. There is no way anything I’m seeing is real.

The person next to me looms up, easily over six feet tall. Muscles threaten to burst from a form-fitting… uniform? The shiny, metallic fabric stretches taut, leaving little to the imagination.

But that’s not the part that gives me pause. It’s the color of his skin. His hands, neck, and face are a unique shade of blue—one I don’t have the proper name for. His eyes are fathomless, dark blue, nearly black, matching the close-cropped hair on his head.

What the hell is happening? I blink, hoping it’s just a trick of the light, but it never changes. I can’t seem to process anything. A loud noise reverberates through my skull, making my head pound.

Nothing seems to make it stop. It’s not until his beefy hand presses against my lips does it go away. It was from me. Even though he’s robbed me of my voice, I can still hear myself screaming in my mind.

His lips move, allowing that deep sound to pour out, but I still can’t comprehend anything he’s saying. Perhaps I’m crazy after all? I toss my head back and forth, desperate to buck off his hand, but it holds firm.

Again, that niggle of terror twists my insides, priming my muscles to flee. If only he’d let me go. But then, where would I run? I have no fucking clue where I even am.

As he speaks once more, I realize I don’t have to understand him to know what he’s saying. The fierce frown flitting across his face tells me everything. Unfortunately, instead of ramping up my fear, all it does is make my core clench with unmistakable arousal. What the actual fuck?

He leans forward, his fingers impossibly long. They brush against my forehead in an almost tender manner, making my stomach flip. When was the last time anyone touched me with such gentleness?

I never really had time for men, apart from the occasional one-night stand to scratch an itch, but when Mom got sick, that narrowed my time down even more. Tears gather in my eyes as I lean into the stranger, desperate for the feel of his hands on my body.

My brain doesn’t even contemplate the fact that I’m restrained by this monster… It just feels so good to be touched. Until now, I didn’t realize how starved I was for affection.

As she got sick, Mom became fragile. As she got worse, she became even more frail and weak. I had to keep our interactions minimal. And after… well… it didn’t seem in good taste to get my rocks off while planning the funeral and going through her things.

But this nightmare proves I’m not meant to be alone. Because, let’s face it, with the absolute absurdity I’m witnessing right now, there’s no way this is real. Just the alcohol with a healthy dose of need and wanting.

How else could I picture a blue man with eyes so piercing they seem to see right through me? With a sigh, I rest my head back and stop fighting. If this is the only touch I receive right now, I might as well enjoy it. God knows my brain thinks I need this.

However, the moment I wake up, I’m booking an appointment with a therapist. Several people told me talking to someone would help, but I never wanted to be that far from Mom. Not when she could have gone at any moment.

I would have blamed myself if I wasn’t there for her passing. Especially if I was out there doing something for me and being so selfish as to not tend to her every chance I got. Now that she’s gone, there’s no one left to keep me tethered down. I have the freedom to talk to someone and unburden myself.

But do I really want to? I’ve never been the type to just unleash my feelings. It’s always better for me to puzzle through things until I get an answer. This dream is already telling me a lot about myself that I don’t need to pay a therapist to reveal.

It’s obvious I need to get back out there and date. At the very least, I need to satisfy these unmet urges. Why else would I want to ravage the strange man staring down at me as his fingers brush through my hair?

Only one thing remains that I cannot answer. Why the fuck is he blue? It doesn’t matter how hard I think, I cannot come up with a reason. Nothing I’ve watched had blue men in it.

True, I had wanted to see a Blue Man Group concert, but they looked nothing like the behemoth looming over me. And they didn’t make my pussy spasm with just a fierce slash of their brows. Did they even have eyebrows?

As he leans down, his hot breath washes across my skin, sending goosebumps up and down my arms. Thoughts of therapists and meaning can wait. For now, I need to just give in and take the pleasure my subconscious so desperately requires. Perhaps I’ll even invest in a vibrator after this… you know, something to take the edge off while I search for a man to assist me.

Again, he opens his mouth, but the words drifting from his lips make no sense. When he sees the confusion on my face, he frowns again and pulls away. No! I long to scream out, desperate to have him touching me again.

But he slips away from view. A chill races down my spine as I look about as best as I can, my body freezing now that he’s not next to me, lending his warmth. Are dreams supposed to be this uncomfortable?

I’m well aware of how naked I am with every gust of frigid wind crossing over me. Shivers wrack my body as I lie there, strapped down, helpless, and alone. For a moment, I long to rectify the situation, to cover myself up and cocoon in the warm haven which lulled me to sleep earlier.