Page 110 of Reverie

“Is this what you wanted?” His eyes are bloodshot, hard, dazed, and angry, and I try to open my mouth to say something, anything, but he squeezes my throat the tightest he ever has.

He’s still not applying pressure to the front of my throat, but where he presses to the sides it causes my head to feel heavy.

The fuzzy static returns.

“Do you like seeing me weak, Winter? Is it not enough that I’m so vulnerable being in love with you, but now you have to strip everything from me?”

The sensations of him below and the spiraling pressure at my throat cause my orgasm to step to the brink again.

I shake my head less than an inch. No, this isn’t what I want for him.

“I want to be the man you need me to be, but I’m not. I never was.”

Hunter. Oh, my love….

He loosens his grip, and I draw in air again. In the freedom from the compression, I take the risk of saying, “You’re a good man, Hunter James Brigham.”

He inhales sharply, his hand flexing in a crushing grip, and I put both of my hands on his wrist.

It’s too much.

The world tilts.

It’s too much….

And even still...another orgasm rockets through me, bright and vivid, and my head claps back against the tile, all my muscles seizing.

“Fuck!” he grinds out, and his eyes slide closed as he explodes inside me with one-two-three final surges into my body.

Sirens start screeching in my brain, begging me to take in precious air. But as the seconds tick on and he comes down from the high of his orgasm, he doesn’t loosen his grip.

Hunter….

One-two….

My hands fall from his wrist and he releases me in an instant.

“Shit!” he says, looking at me and gripping the sides of my face. He looks horrified.

“Winter, Winter, I-I—” He makes a choked sound, so I go to reassure him.

“I loved….”

The last thing I hear before I fall to the floor is Hunter’s pained roar.

FOURTEEN

HUNTER

Ican’t stop staring at the bruises.

Winter only slipped from consciousness for a few seconds, but it was enough to scare the shit out of me.

After placing her in our bed, soaking wet and against her protests, I ran across the compound in a towel, screaming at the top of my lungs for help.

Ten guards and two handfuls of medical staff, including Dr. Whitney, came running toward me. Most of them were in their sleep clothes.

“Winter. My room,” was all I could get out, pointing them in the direction with a trembling gesture. Water dripped from my arms, making my trek back to the space where Winter lay dangerous.