“Liam—”
I didn’t get to finish my sentence, because his lips slammed down on mine as he worked his way inside me. He swallowed my moans, his body riding mine, and my back began to arch as I felt that delicious stretch.
“Gods, yes…” he hissed when he was fully seated. “Hold on, love. Hold on.”
It wasn’t to him he wanted me to grab, though my fingers did wrap around the taut muscles in his hips. He wanted me to hold on to the dream. While I had no other experience with lucid dreaming, I assumed it was all part of my neurological interestingness. I saw shit that wasn’t there, my eyesight went weird, and I could control my dreams about the lead singer of my favourite band. But I couldn’t hold tight to the fantasy—clinging too hard, wanting it too badly was a sure way to make me wake up. Which is perhaps why the next thing happened.
I was swept away in a tide of sensation, listening to the shudder of his breath, smelling the wild scent of him all around me, feeling his mouth and teeth on my neck, when he said the words.
“Need you so much, Ki. Love you.”
My eyes snapped open. My body was too caught up in the rapidly cresting wave of pleasure that when he pulled back, resting on his hands above me and gazing down with a look of pure tenderness, all I could do was gasp in surprise and at the feel of him thrusting inside me.
That’s how I always knew it was a dream. No one had ever said those words to me, ever.
“Stay with me, Ki,” he said, his brows knotting with concentration, with sweet pain as his strokes grew faster. He raced now, trying to slam his body into mine, grinding into my clit on the down stroke, and it felt so good. Pleasure bloomed like some kind of velvety blossom each time our bodies connected, but it wasn’t enough. He dropped down lower, his lips nipping at mine as I wondered if sex was ever this good in real life, since my previous experiences had always been fumbling, awkward, and uncomfortable affairs.
“Kira…” he panted as my eyes became transfixed by the shades of blond and brown in his hair. I stroked a strand, and the feel of it slipping through my fingers was somehow more real than the sex.
“Kira!”
My focus snapped back to Liam when he pulled my hand away, shoving it down on the bed, his lips now only centimetres from mine.
“We’re coming for you,” he said. He shifted slowly above me, twisting his spine like a snake, spiking me through with those grey eyes. “Soon.”
3
“Mrs. Heath said you had another turn today.”
Mum’s voice was the only sound you could hear above the scrape of cutlery on porcelain. Bloody Gisbourne. Living in a small town worked for me because everyone had learned of my condition over the years and knew to ring Mum or Jen ASAP, as well as deliver me a coffee strong enough for the spoon to stand in. The trade-off was everyone had a vested interest in my wellbeing.
“Jen caught it early and got me to the caf,” I said, keeping my eyes on the meatloaf. “Her driver brought me home. I’ve had some tea and a sleep, and I’ll feel better soon.”
“Did you eat breakfast?” Dad said.
I looked up to see those thick eyebrows drawn down in a frown, the rest of Dad’s face masked by facial hair.
“Yes, an omelette and some toast.”
“And you took the beta blockers?”
“Yes.”
“And the antidepressants? Did you take them last night? Did you sleep through? They stop working if you forget, you know that. You must take them—”
“Every day,” I replied. I let a long sigh out and then straightened my spine.
I’d done some research, unable to face day after day of parental disappointment every time I had an attack. Compassion fatigue, they called it. The phenomenon where carers or bystanders felt the pressure to keep caring about chronic conditions, but come to resent that pull. I couldn’t do anything about any of this. I was always med compliant. Bugger it, I was just compliant. I felt like, given the burden I provided to my parents, the least I could do was take my damn medicines and not cause trouble. I saw a faint wiggle at the corner of my vision, something that had me frowning as I looked down at my plate.
“I took all of my meds, at the right time, with the right combination of food, water, and sleep,” I said. “Look, Nan was a lot antsier than usual. Maybe it’s a full moon or something.”
“Don’t talk about your grandmother, Kira,” Mum said.
“Or bloody moons or astrology or any of that other bullshit!” Dad snapped, laying his cutlery down with a clunk. “There are no magic wands, Kira! No wee people nor faerie lords ready to ride to your rescue!”
“Bernard!” Mum retorted. It was only me who saw the shake in her hand as she gripped her knife, her eyes burning as she stared down Dad. “Kira, go to your room while I speak to your father.”
I dropped all pretence of having dinner at that. The meatloaf looked as appetising as a shit sandwich right now, and I was not going to be able to eat anymore, no matter what Dad said. The patronising tone, the endless checking in, the assumption I wasn’t managing my conditions—something none of my doctors did anywhere near as much. My breath came in faster and faster, and the wiggle at the side of my vision became more and more persistent. My utensils landed on the table with a clatter, and I sat back in my chair, my arms crossed.
“I’m not a bloody child. I don’t need to be sent away so you two can have a row. You want to unload on each other? Go right ahead.”
“Kira,” came Dad’s low growl.
“C’mon then. This isn’t a period movie. We don’t have to sit around the table seething internally. Have it out then.”
“What the bloody hell has gotten into you?” Dad said, inspecting me through narrow eyes, and apparently, he didn’t like what he saw. “Have you—?”
“Is this a bad time?”
Jen stood in the dining room doorway like she’d appeared from nowhere, her eyes taking in Mum and Dad’s stiff stance with a flat gaze.
“Hey, Ki,” she said when no one answered. “I rang, but you didn’t reply.” Mum was a Nazi about phones at dinner. “I’ve got some exciting news!” Jen sounded like a children’s performer in front of a really tough crowd—all enthusiasm and excitement despite the even stares levelled at her. “Dad has a job for you, to take photos at the party.”
Some of the tension in the room dissipated when Dad snorted at that.
“This is going to be big. Newspapers and magazines all over the world have put in bids to buy whatever photographs come out of it.” Jen’s eyes swivelled around to meet mine. “Ki, this is a chance to break into documentary photography.”
“For bloody tabloids,” Dad scoffed.
“Shut up, Bernard,” Mum said, so swiftly, so sarcastically, we all turned to take a look. Mum was usually the peacemaker in the family, since she felt like it was her that had foisted a mother and daughter with mental illness on Dad. “So what exactly is the proposal, Jenny dear? Does your father have a contract for this job?”
“Right here,” Jen said with a flourish. “The lady in question just needs to sign on the dotted line below. In blood, of course.” She winked at me.