Chapter 17: sleepy caitlyn pt 2
He froze.
The word hung in the dark, a vapor trail from a dream he wasn’t supposed to witness. Daddy. It wasn’t a title. It was a confession, mined from a depth of her he’d only guessed at. It echoed in the silent room, louder than her cries had been, more intimate than the feel of his come leaking from her.
For a long moment, he just stared at her sleeping face, now smoothed back into an approximation of peace. The tear had dried. Her breathing, while still uneven, was deepening toward true sleep again. The word had been a final expulsion, a secret whispered to the darkness before the veil fell completely.
A revulsion he didn’t expect coiled in his gut, cold and sharp. It wasn’t disgust at her. It was the sudden, vertiginous understanding of the chasm he’d just leapt across. He hadn’t just fucked her in her sleep. He’d become a ghost in her most private mythology. He’d tapped a need so fundamental, so shamefully rooted, that it spoke in a language of childhood helplessness. Daddy. The provider. The protector. The first and ultimate authority. And she was begging it for a brutal, waking fuck.
The awe he’d felt curdled into something more complex, more dangerous. He owned a piece of her now that even she hadn’t fully acknowledged in the light. The power of it was narcotic, and it sickened him. He needed to get out. To be away from the smell of her, the heat of her body, the evidence of what he’d done and what he’d uncovered.
He turned to go. The door was three steps away. Freedom, and the coward’s solace of pretending this was just another dark whimsy.
Then she whimpered. Not a sound of passion, but of loss. A small, distressed noise from the back of her throat. Her forehead creased. Her hand, lying palm-up on the mattress, flexed, grasping at empty air. She shifted, curling in on herself slightly, as if cold. The movement emphasized the new emptiness beside her.
“…don’t go…” The words were slurred, thick with sleep. “…skin… need…”
She wasn’t talking to him. She was talking to the phantom in her dream. But the need was real. The physical craving for contact, for the solid, warm proof of another body, was a palpable force in the room. It resonated in the hollow of his own chest. The emptiness of his own bed, the stale silence of his own room, yawned before him like a condemnation.
He stood at the precipice, the doorknob cool under his palm. He could leave. He should leave. This was crossing into a territory from which there was no ironic return, no alibi of detached cruelty.
Her hand swept the sheet again, a blind, seeking motion. The whimper came again, edging toward a sob.
“Fuck,” he breathed, the word a surrender.
He let go of the knob. He walked back to the bed, his movements decisive now. He stripped his sweat-damp t-shirt over his head in one sharp motion and tossed it onto the floor with her clothes.
He didn’t get under the covers. He leaned over her, his hands sliding under her shoulders and the backs of her knees. She was a dead weight, but he lifted her easily, shifting her toward the center of the bed. Then he lay down beside her, on his back, and pulled her into him.
He manhandled her until her head was pillowed on his shoulder, her arm flung across his chest, her leg drawn over his thighs. Skin to skin. From head to toe. The shock of the full-body contact was a jolt. Her skin was so soft, so warm, a living brand against him. The dampness between her thighs smeared against his leg. The scent of sex—their sex—rose powerfully between them, trapped in the intimate space where their bodies met.
She let out a shivering sigh that seemed to come from the very center of her being. The tension melted from her limbs. She nuzzled into the hollow of his neck, her lips brushing his collarbone. A perfect, trusting fit. Her breathing evened out, deepening almost immediately into the slow, untroubled rhythm of profound sleep.
Yet, his body betrayed him. The sheer animal comfort of another warm body, the weight of her, the rhythm of her breath against his skin… it soothed something in him he didn’t know was raw. His arm, which had lain stiffly at his side, slowly lifted and curled around her shoulders, his hand resting on the smooth plane of her back. His other hand came to rest on the curve of her hip, his thumb making small, unconscious strokes against her skin.
He was holding her. Really holding her. And she, in total, oblivious trust, was holding him back.
Sleep, when it finally came for him, was a black, dreamless void.
The first sensation was warmth. A solid, delicious heat along her entire left side. Caitlyn swam up through layers of thick, satin sleep, her mind fuzzy and disoriented. There was a pleasant ache in her muscles, a deep, satisfying tiredness. And there was a scent—clean sweat, something unmistakably male, and underneath it, a ghost of her own perfume and something else… something muskier, familiar.
Her eyes fluttered open. The room was grey with pre-dawn light. Her cheek was pressed against something firm and warm. She could hear a heartbeat, steady and slow, not her own. Her leg was thrown over a solid, heavily muscled thigh. An arm was a heavy, secure weight across her back.
Anxin.
A hot, shameful blush crept up her chest and neck. But beneath the shame, a fiercer, hungrier emotion surged: triumph. He was here. In her bed. Holding her.
His bare chest rose and fell beneath her ear in that steady, mesmerizing rhythm. She didn’t dare move. She barely breathed. If she shifted even a millimeter, this spell might break. He might wake up and the cold, distant Anxin would return, shattering the illusion of this tranquil closeness. She kept her eyes closed, committing every detail to memory: the crisp texture of his chest hair against her cheek, the hard line of his pectoral muscle, the slow, powerful beat of his heart against her ear. His hand on her back was heavy. Possessive. Real.
A different awareness began to filter through the warmth. A specific, clinging wetness. Between her thighs. A cool, sticky sensation on her inner leg where it was draped over his. She frowned slightly into his skin. The fog of sleep receded, replaced by a sharp, bodily memory. Aches. Delicious, deep-set aches in muscles she rarely felt. A tender throbbing between her legs. The ghost of a fullness.
Her hand, trapped between their bodies, subtly shifted. Her fingers trailed down her own stomach, over the plane of her hip, through the thatch of curls. They found slickness. Thick, cool-wet, coating her inner lips. She pressed deeper, past her folds, and felt a shocking, residual heat, and a creamier texture that was unmistakable.
He actually did it.
Her eyes flew open, staring unseeing at the ridge of his collarbone. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat utterly at odds with his steady pulse. He’d fulfilled her fantasy. The one she’d whispered in the dark weeks ago, half-joking, whole-hoping, after he’d fucked her so brutally she couldn’t walk right for two days. I want you to use me in my sleep. He’d grunted, called her a filthy dreamer, and bit her shoulder. She’d assumed he’d dismissed it.
He hadn’t dismissed it. He’d remembered. He’d waited. And he’d done it.
A violent, electric thrill shot from her core to the very tips of her fingers and toes. It was immediately followed by a wave of scalding shame. She was lying here, covered in his drying come, his arm around her, and she had no memory of it. No memory of his touch, his weight, his face in the dark. It had been stolen. Given. The paradox made her head spin.
She started throbbing at the thought of him having used her in her sleep.
The wetness on her fingers, the evidence of his violation—no, his granting of her deepest wish—acted like a trigger. A fresh, searing heat bloomed between her legs. Her cunt clenched, empty, around the ghost of him. The mild soreness became a bright, needy pulse. The thought was obscene: him moving over her unconscious body, taking what he wanted, seeing her utterly helpless and taking it. Planting his seed inside her while she dreamed of… of what? Of him?
She was soaking wet. Again. Her own fresh arousal mixing with his spend. The scent of it, of them, filled her nostrils. All she could do now is fuck his cum deeper into herself.
Her hand, still between her legs, moved. It was a compulsive, tiny motion. Her middle finger slid through the combined slickness, circling her own entrance, which felt swollen and sensitive. She pressed the tip inside, just an inch, feeling the impossible heat, the internal mess he’d left. She curled her finger, dragging his come back out, then smearing it over her clit. The touch was electrifying. A sharp gasp caught in her throat.
She did it again. A little deeper this time. Her hips gave a minute, involuntary rock against her own hand. She fucked herself with her own finger, pretending it was him, forcing his residue back inside where it belonged, marking her from the inside out all over again. The shame evaporated, burned away by a devouring hunger. She wanted to wake up like this every day. Used. Filled. Owned.
A low, sleep-roughened voice vibrated against her ear. “Keep going.”
She froze. Her hand stuttered to a halt, buried between her thighs. Her entire body went rigid against his.
“I said keep going.” His arm tightened around her back, locking her in place. “You’re putting my come back where it belongs. Don’t stop on my account.”
He was awake. He’d been awake. How much had he felt? How much had he heard? The humiliation was a live wire, but the command in his voice was a stronger current. It bypassed her brain and went straight to her cunt, which clenched viciously around nothing.
Slowly, tremulously, she moved her finger again. The wet sound was grotesquely loud in the quiet room.
“Use two,” he instructed, his tone conversational, as if discussing the weather. His own body was profoundly relaxed beneath hers, but she felt the hardening length of him beginning to press against her hip. “Get it all nice and worked in there.”
She added a second finger, sliding them both into her soaked channel. A whimper escaped her. It was so much, the stretch, the shame, the blinding arousal. She pumped them slowly, the slick, filthy sounds accelerating her heartbeat.
“That’s it,” he murmured, his lips brushing her forehead. “Good girl. Cleaning up my mess. Making sure you’re properly bred.” The word bred sent a shockwave through her. Her back arched, forcing her fingers deeper.
“Was I…” she started, her voice a raw scrape. “Did I…?”
“Did you what?” he asked, his hand beginning to move on her back, tracing idle patterns. “Wake up? No. You slept right through it. Like a little doll.” He shifted his hips, his erection digging more insistently into her. “You talked, though.”
Her fingers stilled again. “What did I say?”
He was silent for a long moment. She could feel him choosing his words, weighing their impact. “You begged,” he said finally, simple and brutal. “Not for me to stop. For… other things.”
Daddy. The memory, not of the night, but of the dream she’d been having, slammed into her with the force of a physical blow. A dream of strong hands and a low voice and absolute, terrifying safety. Her face burned against his chest.
“Oh god,” she whispered.
“Not god,” he corrected softly, his hand drifting down to her ass, gripping the cheek firmly. “Me.” He rolled then, suddenly, fluidly, pulling her with him until she was flat on her back and he was looming over her, his weight settling between her thighs. He looked down at her, his dark eyes taking in her flushed face, her wide eyes, her hand still wedged pathetically between her legs.
He looked utterly awake. Utterly in control. The tenderness of the sleeping embrace was gone, burned off by the morning light and her own desperate, filthy actions.