the internet.
Besides, the people wanted her books. They didn’t need to see what she looked like.
Suddenly depressed, she turned away from the glorious glow of the sunrise and walked back into her small house, shoulders slumped, head low.
And totally unaware of the eyes that watched her.
* * * * *
Her dreams were restless.
Tormented.
The pain that she hadn’t had to deal with for two years came back to haunt her, the metal of a belt buckle biting into her skin, the hard slap of a fist pounding into her flesh, the hot, salty splash of blood on her tongue as he busted her mouth again.
When she woke to the muffled sound of her own screams at three a.m., she lay there, curled up in a tight ball, afraid to move until the sun started to creep over the horizon some three and half hours later. Crawling from bed, she stumbled into the shower, grabbing one of the towels from a box as she went.
Turning the spray up as hot as she could stand it, she climbed into the stall and stood under it, feeling that hot needles pounding into her skin. Bracing her hands against the wall, she leaned her head forward, water sluicing over her skull to drip down her face and off her chin.
She was shaking.
Fuck, she could actually see her body quivering. She was cold to the bone, so cold she ached with it, even though her flesh was pink from the heat of the water pouring over it.
“You’re not going to keep haunting me like this,” she muttered grimly. “You’re not.”
She grabbed the shampoo and dumped some of the pale pearlescent liquid into her palm, scrubbing it into her hair, soaping the long brunette tresses. It hung halfway down her back now. Slowly a smile spread across her face as she smoothed her hair down over her breasts.
Long, dark hair, and round curves instead of the near anorexic body she’d sported since she was eighteen and had been discovered by a modeling agency. She rinsed the shampoo from her hair and then turned her back to the spray, staring down at her body.
Her breasts were just a little fuller now, thanks to the weight she’d put on. Fuller, just a little less perky than they had once been—damn, she was glad she’d refused that damn breast implant surgery Vincent had demanded she have. She’d gotten his fist in her gut over that.
“Stop it, Tracy… Emery. Stop it. It doesn’t matter anymore. It’s over.”
Slicking her hands over her flesh, she rubbed in the simple, vanilla scented soap. Brushing her fingers over her nipples, she shivered at the small sensation that went through her.
Closing her eyes, she pushed Vincent Grainger’s face out of her mind, summoning Joel’s image as she circled her fingers over the hard little bud of her clit, shivering as pleasure streaked through her.
She liked touching herself—it wasn’t as sweet as Joel’s hands on her, but at least she knew how to feel pleasure, not just pain. Sliding her fingers over her breasts, she cupped them, tugging on her nipples until the aching spread down to her belly, and lower.
The slick folds of her sex were getting wetter and it had nothing to do with the shower. Pumping two fingers in and out of her pussy, she moaned as the tightening increased, until she could hardly breathe from the sensations coursing through her.
But her hands on her body just weren’t enough.
Joel…where are you!
With a groan of frustration, she reached for the massaging shower head and tugged it down. Aiming the hot spray to her sensitive folds, she screamed, short and hard, as the hot, rapacious feelings spread.
She screamed as she climaxed under the spray of water and her knees gave out. Slumping to the floor of the shower stall, she leaned her head back against the wall, a wobbly smile on her mouth.
“Hmmm…oh, yeah, that was nice,” she murmured.
A few minutes later, knees still a little wobbly, she climbed from the shower and dried a circle on the moisture fogged mirror, staring at her reflection with somber eyes.
“Tracy
Besides, the people wanted her books. They didn’t need to see what she looked like.
Suddenly depressed, she turned away from the glorious glow of the sunrise and walked back into her small house, shoulders slumped, head low.
And totally unaware of the eyes that watched her.
* * * * *
Her dreams were restless.
Tormented.
The pain that she hadn’t had to deal with for two years came back to haunt her, the metal of a belt buckle biting into her skin, the hard slap of a fist pounding into her flesh, the hot, salty splash of blood on her tongue as he busted her mouth again.
When she woke to the muffled sound of her own screams at three a.m., she lay there, curled up in a tight ball, afraid to move until the sun started to creep over the horizon some three and half hours later. Crawling from bed, she stumbled into the shower, grabbing one of the towels from a box as she went.
Turning the spray up as hot as she could stand it, she climbed into the stall and stood under it, feeling that hot needles pounding into her skin. Bracing her hands against the wall, she leaned her head forward, water sluicing over her skull to drip down her face and off her chin.
She was shaking.
Fuck, she could actually see her body quivering. She was cold to the bone, so cold she ached with it, even though her flesh was pink from the heat of the water pouring over it.
“You’re not going to keep haunting me like this,” she muttered grimly. “You’re not.”
She grabbed the shampoo and dumped some of the pale pearlescent liquid into her palm, scrubbing it into her hair, soaping the long brunette tresses. It hung halfway down her back now. Slowly a smile spread across her face as she smoothed her hair down over her breasts.
Long, dark hair, and round curves instead of the near anorexic body she’d sported since she was eighteen and had been discovered by a modeling agency. She rinsed the shampoo from her hair and then turned her back to the spray, staring down at her body.
Her breasts were just a little fuller now, thanks to the weight she’d put on. Fuller, just a little less perky than they had once been—damn, she was glad she’d refused that damn breast implant surgery Vincent had demanded she have. She’d gotten his fist in her gut over that.
“Stop it, Tracy… Emery. Stop it. It doesn’t matter anymore. It’s over.”
Slicking her hands over her flesh, she rubbed in the simple, vanilla scented soap. Brushing her fingers over her nipples, she shivered at the small sensation that went through her.
Closing her eyes, she pushed Vincent Grainger’s face out of her mind, summoning Joel’s image as she circled her fingers over the hard little bud of her clit, shivering as pleasure streaked through her.
She liked touching herself—it wasn’t as sweet as Joel’s hands on her, but at least she knew how to feel pleasure, not just pain. Sliding her fingers over her breasts, she cupped them, tugging on her nipples until the aching spread down to her belly, and lower.
The slick folds of her sex were getting wetter and it had nothing to do with the shower. Pumping two fingers in and out of her pussy, she moaned as the tightening increased, until she could hardly breathe from the sensations coursing through her.
But her hands on her body just weren’t enough.
Joel…where are you!
With a groan of frustration, she reached for the massaging shower head and tugged it down. Aiming the hot spray to her sensitive folds, she screamed, short and hard, as the hot, rapacious feelings spread.
She screamed as she climaxed under the spray of water and her knees gave out. Slumping to the floor of the shower stall, she leaned her head back against the wall, a wobbly smile on her mouth.
“Hmmm…oh, yeah, that was nice,” she murmured.
A few minutes later, knees still a little wobbly, she climbed from the shower and dried a circle on the moisture fogged mirror, staring at her reflection with somber eyes.
“Tracy
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