Chapter 6: The Morning After
The house held its breath with her. Dust motes danced in the slanted afternoon sun cutting through the hallway window. Mildred stood frozen, one hand still on her bedroom doorknob, the phantom sensation of her own touch a cooling film on her skin. From down the hall, a low groan. The sound was a hook in her gut, yanking her forward.
She crept to his door, pressing her ear against the cool wood. Another groan, followed by the rustle of sheets. He was waking up.
Her heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She smoothed her hands down her silk robe, a nervous gesture, and pushed the door open.
Sid was trying to sit up, one hand braced on the mattress, the other pressed to his forehead. The comforter was pooled around his waist. He was shirtless, and the sheet beneath him was twisted. And there, pushing insistently against the faded cotton of his boxers, was the evidence of the drug’s lingering curse, a stark outline against the rumpled fabric. He blinked slowly, his eyes struggling to focus in the dim room.
“Mom?” His voice was gravel, shredded. “What… what happened?”
“You passed out,” she said, her own voice surprisingly light. She moved into the room, hovering by the edge of the bed. “That shake must have really disagreed with you. You just collapsed.”
He shook his head, wincing at the movement. “I feel like shit. My head is… fuck. And I’m so… hard.” He said it with a kind of bewildered disgust, looking down at himself as if it were a separate, malfunctioning entity attached to him. “It won’t go away. It’s been like this since I woke up.”
“It’s probably just a weird blood pressure thing from passing out,” she lied, the words flowing easily now. She sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under her weight. She could feel the heat radiating from his body. “Here, let me feel your forehead.” Her fingers brushed his skin. It was cool, clammy. “You’re probably just disoriented.”
He leaned into her touch, his eyes closing. “It’s uncomfortable,” he mumbled, a childlike complaint from his drug-fogged throat. His hand gestured vaguely toward his lap. “It’s… distracting.”
Her gaze was fixed on the strained fabric of his boxers. The memory of its weight and heat in her hand was immediate, visceral. The power she had felt was a dormant ember, and this… this helpless, persistent need in him was a gust of oxygen.
“It’s okay,” she whispered. Her hand, the one that had just been on his forehead, drifted down. It hovered for a moment in the space between them, then settled on his bare thigh. The muscle was tight, solid. He flinched at the contact, his eyes snapping open.
He looked from her face to her hand on his leg, confusion warring with the chemical hunger still clouding his features. “Mom… what are you…”
“Shhh,” she soothed, her voice a low hum. “I’m just helping. Like before.” Her fingers traced a slow, deliberate path up his inner thigh. “You need to relax. Let it pass.”
His breath hitched. He didn’t push her away. He just watched, mesmerized, as her hand moved higher. His own hands clenched into fists on the comforter.
This time was different. There was no frantic, clinical purpose. No need to prove a point. This was slower. Deliberate. Her fingers slipped under the elastic band of his boxers. He was already fully erect, the skin hot and silken. A sharp, shuddering gasp escaped him as her fingers made contact.
She began to move her hand, a languid, exploring rhythm. Her thumb swept over the tip, spreading the bead of moisture that had gathered there. He groaned, a deep, helpless sound, and his head fell back against the pillow. His hips gave a tiny, involuntary jerk.
“See?” she murmured, leaning closer. The scent of him—sweat, sleep, and the unique, musky scent of his arousal—filled her senses. “It’s better if you don’t fight it.”
His eyes were squeezed shut now, his jaw tight. Every muscle in his abdomen was corded with tension. He was trying to hold on, to resist the dual assault of the drug and her touch. But his body was betraying him, arching subtly into her hand, seeking more friction, more pressure.
She watched his face, studying the play of agony and ecstasy. This was no longer about severance. This was about possession. Her other hand came up and she cupped his jaw, her thumb stroking his cheek. His stubble was rough against her skin.
“Let go, Sid,” she whispered, her lips close to his ear. “It’s just me.”
Her words, her touch, the chemical fire in his veins—it was too much. A broken sound, half-sob, half-roar, tore from his throat. His body went rigid, back arching clear off the bed, every tendon standing in stark relief. He spilled over her fingers, hot and sudden, his entire frame shuddering through the release.
For a long moment, the only sound was his ragged, gulping breaths. He collapsed back onto the mattress, completely spent, his consciousness already receding back into an exhausted sleep.
Mildred slowly withdrew her hand. She looked at the mess on her fingers, then calmly wiped them on the same corner of the comforter she’d used earlier. She pulled the sheet up over his still form, tucking it around his shoulders.
She stood and looked down at him. The late afternoon sun had moved, casting the room in deep shadow. He looked younger in sleep, innocent. The thing she had just done settled in the room like a fine ash.
She turned and walked out, closing the door behind her. In the hallway, she leaned against the wall, bringing her fingers to her nose. She inhaled his scent, deep and long, committing it to memory.