He shoved her gently off his lap, their hands still clasped together, and rose unsteadily. Jesus, his pants were several inches too tight, putting ungodly pressure on his cock. Adjusting himself to no avail, he dragged her out of the pit, around groups of conversing members, and out the doors.
“What the hell, Thane?” Connie gasped, trotting alongside him as fast as her little legs could go. “I don't have anything on my feet!”
Easily solved, he thought darkly, pausing briefly to swing her up into his arms as they stepped onto the porch. His leg protested, then was hushed sternly by his dick. Carrying her down the steps and across the gravel, every step was torture. “When we get home, you'll go upstairs to my bedroom and look in the bottom drawer of my bedside table.” Fuck, his keys. He needed his keys. Grunting, he adjusted her weight so she straddled his good hip like a child, reaching into his pocket for his truck keys.
“Why, what's in there?” She clung to his shoulders as she slipped an inch.
Hitching her higher—as if he'd ever let her fucking fall—Thane beeped the locks so he could yank the passenger door open when they got there. He all but shoved her into the seat, yanking the belt around her. “Lube. The good stuff. You'll strip this fucking body bare for me, and you're gonna lube up that tight asshole for me, so that when you're riding my cock—” Jesus, that mouth. Desperately, he claimed her mouth, kissing her strongly enough he stole the breath from her lungs. “When you're riding my goddamn cock,” he repeated fiercely, “I can fingerfuck it at my leisure.”
Barely holding on to control, not quite sure what was making him snap this way, Thane stepped back and slammed the door closed, taking a second to commit her expression to memory through the window. She looked as though heaven and hell had just collided in a shower of rainbows and ash.
*
Perched on the edge of her desk chair the next morning, Connie stared into space absently.
Life as she knew it had flipped on her over the weekend, changing everything. She was quickly coming to understand that there was no coaxing the submissive back in the box, and she had nothing to use to lever it back in either. But did she really want to? The longer she was forced to stare that part of herself in the face, the more she remembered what it was like to be one with it.
Just that morning, she'd been woken by Thane's cock rubbing against her ass, his fingers lazily tweaking her nipples into firm points as he kissed his way across her shoulder to her neck, then up to her ears. For the first time in her life, she'd had sex with a man without either of them uttering a single word…and it had been wonderful. Peaceful. Just low moans and quiet grunts, the rhythmic sound of flesh slapping against flesh culminating in hard cries of orgasm.
For several minutes, they'd lain together, sweaty and panting, before he'd told her to get a shower and meet him in the kitchen for breakfast. It had been weird, helping herself to his shower. Using his shampoo and body wash so she smelled like him, earthy and soothing. Wrapping one of his towels around herself and staring at a stranger in the foggy mirror.
While he made breakfast, Connie had gotten ready for the day, her thoughts in the same jumble they were now. Running through the weekend in slow motion, up to the point where he'd driven them to his house in record time, his jaw tight with concentration. He'd all but dragged her out of his truck, then remembered she wore no shoes and tossed her over his shoulder, striding to the front door like he was on a mission.
She started spinning a pen around on her desk, watching it whizz around and around. She'd been that pen last night. Oh boy, had she been. Things got blurry after he unlocked the door, becoming just a riot of sensations. Clothes tossed haphazardly down the hallway, his mouth everywhere, his hands almost ripping her panties in his haste to shove them down her legs.
She pressed them together, squeezing them against the rush of arousal tightening her pussy. She winced against the vague soreness, then spun the pen again. Her stomach twisted with disbelief at the memory of obeying his sharp order, walking into his bedroom to the bedside table and the bottom drawer. The man had a treasure trove of toys, but finding the lube had been simple enough.
Goddamn amber eyes had watched her as he settled himself on the oversized bed, thumbing his crown and slicking pre-cum around. Watched her dab a test drop on her fingers and rub them together. Though he'd been visibly impatient, he hadn't rushed her. He'd bided his time as she'd lathered two fingers with the silky lube.
She'd almost cracked a tooth when she spread her cheeks with one hand, and tried to follow through with his order using the other. A sob had choked her, her knees had gone numb, and just when she'd believed she would crumple into a heap on his pretty new carpet, Thane's voice had snapped out and taken over, demanding she look him in the eyes.
With her Dom staring her in the face, she'd completed her task. God, that had been a relief. Her belly had been churning with apprehension as she crawled over the covers toward him, summoned by the crook of his finger. She'd eased herself onto him and—
“Doctor Monroe?”
Connie jolted from her reverie, the pen shooting off the edge of the desk and disappearing into no-man's land beneath the bookcase behind her. What the hell was she doing, daydreaming over last night's shenanigans with Thane when she should have been catching up on the new data in her patient’s file? “Caera, sweetheart, come on in. Sorry, I was, ah, distracted.”
Sad green eyes blinked at her from by the door. “Is this a bad time?”
“No, of course not. This is your time, I'm just…” Frazzled. Shake it off, Connie, and focus on the patient. “Ignore me. It’s been a weird morning. Take a seat, get comfy, and I'll be there in just a sec. You want juice, water, or tea? The receptionist is spoiling me this week with a choice of orange or apple for juice, and pretty much every flavor of tea imaginable.”
Caera's lips tried to smile, didn't quite make it. The shadows under her eyes were darker, the jut of her cheekbones higher and more pronounced. She walked stiffly to the couch and sat, almost wilting on to it. “The orange is nice.”
“Orange it is.” Connie had discovered that the girl would eat and drink, minimally, during a session under her watchful eye. Keeping that in mind, she set four bottles of juice on the tray, and added the box of glazed donuts she'd started asking the receptionist to pick up whenever Caera was due in. “Okay, that's the snacks in order.”
Another failed attempt at a smile.
Connie despaired. There wasn't an iota of improvement in Caera that she could see. Her weight records showed that she either maintained it for a day or so—which wasn't a failure, as far as she could see—or dropped another pound between weigh days. Of course, the data available was scarce at the moment, but overall, it showed a decline.
Carrying the tray over to the table, she placed it close to Caera and flipped open the box of donuts, humming appreciatively as the glorious smell rose. “Help yourself, sweetheart. I had a blue one the other day, one of the store's new flavors and, oh my God, it is amazing. Blue raspberry,” she said reverently. “The donut dream has been achieved.”
“I like the toffee.”
Yes, Connie had noticed that. Of the twelve different flavors they'd started with, she'd whittled the girl's favorites down to toffee, chocolate, and one with chopped walnuts. That's why ten of the dozen in the box were those particular ones. “Well, you can have as many as you want.” Rather than sitting down, Connie moved to one of the larger cupboards and pulled out a folded lightweight duvet and a couple of pillows. “We're going to try something a little more involved today, Caera.”
When Connie turned, the girl had a donut pinched in both hands and was nibbling on the top edge. Nibbling was the operative word—her teeth barely made a mark in the damn thing. Connie could hear her stomach gurgling frantically, desperate for a full bite. Caera paused, eyes wide as they raked over the bundle in her therapist's arms. “Oh God.”
“It's nothing to be worried about.” Connie dumped the whole lot in the mid
dle of the couch beside Caera, then arranged the pillows at the opposite end so she'd be able to see her patient's face as they spoke. “I'd like to see how your body reacts when we put you in a situation. In this case, when you're in bed or on the couch, trying to sleep.” She picked the duvet up and let it unfold. “Bring your donut with you, sweetheart. Just pretend you're at home without me lurking, okay?”
“O-Okay.” Caera shuffled across the couch cushions, then toed her sneakers off and lifted her legs so she was stretched along the furniture. She raised her arms to let Connie cover her with the duvet, looking like a child waiting for her mommy to tuck her in. “Am I supposed to…”
“Relax. You're supposed to relax, Caera. That's all we're aiming for today.” Connie moved the tray along the table before kicking her own shoes off, and curling up in her chair with her notebook on her knee. “I managed to catch up with your previous therapists, none of whom I am impressed with. In my opinion, they failed you without ever getting close to the root of the insomnia.”
Indeed, one of the doctors Connie had contacted had pretty much told her on the phone that he was sorry she'd been stuck with the homing pigeon, and that her best course of action was to pump Caera full of as many antipsychotics and mild sedatives as possible, then dropkick her as hard and fast as she could to the next sucker.
Connie was already in the process of reporting him to everyone she could think of. The trouble was that was the attitude of every medical professional Caera had consulted. Drug her and move her on seemed to be the universal answer for everyone but the patient.
“On the other hand, I've been pinging emails off to anyone and everyone who might be able to give us some insight into these night terrors. I've got a list from a dietician of food we can try. He's suggested cutting out sugars, but right now you need them to help with your weight. That's one option.” Connie studied the girl's body language from beneath her lashes as she doodled on her pad. “I've spoken several times with a wonderful woman from Colorado who is an herbalist. She emailed me what she thinks might give you some relief. Calming, suppressive, but not pharmaceutical in nature. That's another option.” She tightened the hair tie holding her hair back. “Option three is kind of combined. I have contacts who have all recommended one doctor in particular. Doctor Elliot sounds like a good guy, knows his field, and might be able to offer us some insight into what's going on in your head. He does a lot of work with sleep trials and insomnia, but he's also a licensed hypnotherapist.”
Caera's hand was starting to droop, the donut forgotten. As Connie spoke softly, the girl's face went slack, some of the vicious tension around her eyes and mouth relaxing. She blinked a few times, obviously trying to keep herself awake, but as Connie hoped, warmth and comfort worked together to provide a stable opportunity for sleep. “Hypnotherapy?”
“Yeah, sweetheart. We're looking at all the options available to us. I think we should try a combination of herbal suppression and hypnotherapy.” Connie jotted down every change in Caera's body language, glancing at the clock to note the time. “It's a place to begin. If it works and gives you even a little bit of respite, it's a plus on our side, okay?”
The donut slid off the duvet and plopped onto the carpet.
Patient fell asleep at 09:23, Connie wrote, then leaned back in her chair, the pen poised. Features are relaxed, hands loose and still. Breathing slow and easy. Approximately five minutes between situating the patient and the onset of slumber.
For the next twenty minutes, there was only the low sound of Caera's breathing and the scratch of pen on paper. The clock kept ticking and Caera continued to sleep. So far, so good, but Connie wasn't letting her guard down. Caera hadn't been able to give her any sort of timeline for how long it took her to fall asleep once she stopped fighting it. She had no idea how long it took for a night terror to form or take hold, and no concept of how long it kept her in its clutches.
Everything Caera had described about her episodes didn't really fit with what Connie understood to be the classic symptoms. Doctor Elliot's help would be invaluable if Connie could persuade the girl to spend a few nights at his clinic. He specialized in sleep disorders, and he had the technology at his disposal to make a thorough investigation into Caera's condition.
Twenty-five minutes in, Caera's fingers twitched slightly. Her toes began to move beneath the duvet, followed by restless kicking of her legs. Writing it all down, Connie was surprised by how slowly the night terror developed. She'd thought once it began, it would take over quickly, but that wasn't what she was seeing here.
Ten minutes after the first twitches started, the muscles in Caera's face jittered. Her eyes opened, the green eerily vacant. The lights were on, but no one was home. Her lips formed words without sound. Connie wished she'd had the foresight to ask Caera permission to record the session so she could get someone to decipher what she was mouthing. Was it a conversation?
No, she mused, narrowing her eyes. There were too many pauses.
Small hands pushed at the duvet, shoving it down to her waist. The frail body beneath quaked, and it seemed to Connie as though every muscle in the girl's body was pumped full of caffeine and adrenaline. Christ, if this is what she went through, no wonder she couldn't keep any weight on. Starving and dehydrated while conscious, burning herself out when she closed her eyes.
Caera's eyes darted everywhere, unable to settle on anything. Her mouth formed words faster, singular words that even Connie could lip read. No. Please. Don't. Her eyes dilated suddenly, the dullness fraught with fear. A sharp, child-like scream tore the air in two, making Connie jump and drop her pen.
Shit. She reached down and picked it up, quickly scrawling the time down before tossing both the pad and pen on the table. She had more than enough shorthand notes to transcribe to send to Doctor Elliot. “All right, sweetheart, wake up now.” Darting out of her chair, Connie hurried to sit beside the girl, propping a hip next to her. “Caera. Caera, if you can hear me, I need you to come back to me.”
The sleeping woman arched rigidly, another scream shattering the quiet of the room, and no doubt all the others on this floor. Tears leaked from her eyes, but still there was no one answering the knock on the door.
Connie gripped slim shoulders, wincing as she felt the bones beneath her palms, stark and sharp. As she shook them as hard as she dared, not convinced she wouldn't break something fragile like a collarbone, Connie deepened her voice into what she considered her Domme voice—firm, direct, and requiring a response. “Caera! You will wake up, this instant!” She almost added or you'll get a spanking as a matter of habit, but managed to stem the impulse. “Caera!”
As though Connie had slapped her, Caera bolted upright, another scream cutting off mid-note. She lifted her hands to her throat, fingers clawing at her own skin with ragged nails bitten down to the quicks. Connie was quick to grab her wrists, shocked that her thumb and forefingers braceleted them with room to spare. “No, sweetheart. It's okay. You're fine, baby, I promise.” She lowered her tone, losing the edge of authority and using the maternal hum she reserved for her girls at the club. Both Bodie and Archie had been on the receiving end of her mothering more than once. “Just shush, sweetheart. I've got you. You're not alone this time.”
Caera's teeth chattered as she searched the room for a foe Connie couldn't identify yet. Hell, she was sure the girl hadn't crossed that line yet, either. With a harsh, broken cry, Caera threw herself into Connie's arms and wept.
“That's a good girl. Give it to me. I can take it.” Connie murmured, pulling her in tight and rocking her. There was more meat on a turkey's bones after it had been picked clean on Thanksgiving, she thought. Letting Caera cry resonated inside her, remembering how it felt to be so lost it was impossible to find the road home. How even simple human contact offered a wealth of comfort, a hand in the dark when it was needed most. “I've got you, sweetheart.”
Chapter Nine
Lunchtime found Connie face down on her desk, emotionally drained by
Caera's session. Once the girl was settled, they'd finished with a quiet discussion on what Connie had written down and what she would do with the information. Caera had grudgingly agreed to let her send it to Doctor Elliot, which was a step forward, and was willing to try the herbal route.
All positive, Connie reminded herself wearily. They were creeping forward, an inch at a time.
Philip Fordham had capped her morning off with an added dose of exhaustion. The guy was in his mid-forties, had a solid desk job, and loved running, hiking, being totally active with his wife and two sons. So active, he'd apparently thought himself qualified to climb onto the roof of his house with a fucking chainsaw to cut down an overhanging branch that kept scraping the windows of the attic room where his oldest son slept.
A rope around his waist tied to the chimney, Connie thought in disgust as her cell phone chimed. For someone who came across as being a smart guy with above average intelligence, he was a goddamn moron. Cutting through the branch, the chainsaw had slipped and messily removed his right leg at the mid-shin point, requiring surgeons to amputate at the knee.
It had become clear within the first fifteen minutes that Mr. Fordham blamed everyone but himself for the accident which left him legless. His son's fault, of course, for complaining about the branch in the first place. His wife's, for nagging at him to call a professional to do the job. What had come after…oh yes, let's not forget it fell on the EMTs for taking too long to find the separated limb after it got knocked off the roof when Fordham was flailing around screaming.
And then…oh, and then, she thought furiously, the bulk of the blame landed squarely on the dedicated surgeons and nurses who had fought to save the wreck of his leg. He'd waffled on about the injury itself, but the one thing she'd gleaned from the conversation was that the whole fucking mess had been his doing, because he hadn't wanted to pay someone with the right equipment and knowledge to do the task properly.
Talk For Me: Club Avalon Book 3 Page 21