Echo(50)

And I’m finally home—safe in the comfort of the only man I ever want to share this with.

He holds himself still inside of me when he says, “You’re the only one who’s ever made me feel like this.”

“Like what?”

Pulling out of me, he thrusts back in, grunting, “Like this,” as he fills me deeply.

My body arches off the bed as he elicits carnal moans from deep in my womb, and I spread my thighs even wider for him because I need more.

Dragging his cock out of me again, he slams his hips down into me, while asking, “You feel that?” hitting my sweet spot deep inside.

“Yes,” I breathe.

“Tell me,” he demands as he drives himself back inside of my body, now pumping in and out with purpose, mending us together.

My eyes falls shut as I let him take me over, giving him my body entirely for him to have and use however he wishes.

“I love you,” I release in the breaths of air we now share.

“Tell me again.”

My skin tingles in radiant pleasure, warmed in passion.

“I love you, Declan.”

I begin to lose myself, bucking my hips to meet each of his thrusts. I can feel his cock growing thicker, harder, hotter. His hold on my wrists tightens, but it only makes me feel safer.

“Open your eyes,” I hear him say, and the moment before I do, I smell it—stale cigarettes and piss.

My body locks up when my eyes open and it’s Carl looking down at me, f*cking me with his disgusting dick and breathing his putrid breath all over me.



JOLTING AWAKE, MY eyes pop open to be greeted by another snow-filled night. Another bad dream possesses my subconscious. This is the third nightmare I’ve woken from tonight. Gone are the nights of exploring with Carnegie, my caterpillar friend. He’s been replaced by morphed scenes of Declan loving me and by dank basements, urine-stenched closets, and the visions of Carl jerking himself off as he watches me.

I take my time to quiet my rapid-beating heart before I lie back down. I focus on the snow that collects on the window. Some of it melts, tuning into trickling rivers that slowly make their way down the glass. I burrow down into the blankets, trying to warm myself, and when I roll over from the moonlit snow, it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust.

It’s after I blink a few times that I see him, and I hold my breath, wondering if I’m imagining this—imagining him.





HE SITS ON the chair a few feet from the bed I’m lying in, leaning over with his elbows propped on his knees. I know he’s really here when he lifts his head and looks at me, the moon illuminating his green eyes. My head remains resting on the pillow, and I breathe in deeply.

Why is he here?

Neither one of us moves or speaks; we simply watch each other in the dark silence. I want to move though. My body begs to crawl onto his lap, to have him dominate every one of my senses. The dream I just woke from felt so real. It’s all I want, to be in a place where we can have moments like that together. But the dream turned to a nightmare so quickly, and I know it’s because of Declan that it did.

How can I crave this man who now torments me? What is it about him that makes me want to forgive him so easily, to not even question him?

I notice the creases that line his forehead and his brows that cinch in the despair we both feel.

“What are we doing?” His voice, a quiet rasp filled with oppression.

Sitting up, I never take my eyes off of him, but I don’t know what to say. I wish I had an answer for him, but I’m just as confused. He has my emotions bouncing all over the place and colliding in a war inside of me.

I lose the contact when he drops his head down into the palms of his hands, and his voice is a soft murmur, “What’ve I done?” and I don’t know if he’s talking to me or simply to himself, but I remain quiet as he continues. “What’ve you done? I don’t know what’s going on here . . . what this is between us . . . what this is inside of me.”

“It’s a battle between heart and mind,” I whisper, and when I do, he looks up at me.

I watch his face tighten in grief, the feeling thickens the room, and it takes him a while to speak again, but when he does, the words are drenched in shame. “Are you all right?”

When I don’t answer him, he exhausts on a breath, “That’s a stupid question.”

“Declan . . . ”

“I’m sorry. What I did . . . That wasn’t . . . ”