The Ritual

She sniffs. “This isn’t the first time I’ve had the dream.”

“When was the last time you had it?”

“Over the summer. Matt and I were back home, and he was staying over.” She swallows. “I woke up wet and horny. I woke him up to tell him about it. I wanted to mess around. He left and didn’t talk to me for two weeks.” The first tear runs down her face. “He said that there was something wrong with me. That I was fucked up.” She covers her face with her hands and starts to cry.

There is nothing wrong with a girl who has forced-sex fantasies. Matt is just a punk-ass bitch. The more I see how he was and is with her, I think he was training her. I thought he had true feelings for her, but I think there were other reasons as to why he was with her. And I’m going to find out what they are.

I pull her into me, wrapping my arms around her. “Good girl.” I praise her for telling me, and her body shakes against mine. Bending down, I put my arm behind her legs and pick her up, carrying her back to her room. That text I was in the middle of can wait.

CHAPTER TWENTY

BLAKELY

“MATT?” I SHOVE his shoulder.

“What?” he mumbles, eyes still closed.

“Get up, babe.” I kiss his chest. “I want to play around.”

“Blakely …” He opens his eyes and checks his cell on my dresser next to my bed. “It’s after midnight.”

“I know.” I get up and straddle his hips. Lifting his hands, I place them on my boobs. “I just had this dream.”

“Oh, yeah?” He chuckles, his hands squeezing my breasts on his own. “Must have been good? What did we do?”

“Well, I was jogging—”

“On that trail I tell you to stay the fuck away from?” He interrupts me.

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, yeah. I was running, and a man was following me. He said he had been watching me.” I grind my pussy on his dick. I can feel how hard it is through his boxers. He won’t fuck me, but we do other things. My body is craving sex. So bad. I don’t know how much longer I can wait. “Anyway, when I went to run away, he chased me down and tied my hands behind my back, and dragged me into the trees …”

His hands drop from my chest. “What?”

I wave off his concerned tone. “I wanted it. There was just something about it. I was …”

“You dreamed you were raped?” he snaps.

I bite my bottom lip nervously. My heart accelerates and shoulders sag.

“Jesus, Blakely. Do you have any idea how that makes me feel?” He glares up at me.

“You?” I ask, looking at him through my lashes.

“Yeah. Me.” He shoves me off him and gets out of bed. “If some guy decides he wants to rape you, you’re going to let him. And get off on that shit.”

I’ve had this dream ever since I was fifteen. And at first, I was disgusted with myself. Why would anyone dream and get turned on by something like that when people have experienced something so traumatic in real life? “Lots of women have forced-sex fantasies,” I argue. After the fifth time I had this dream, I started doing research, and I found I wasn’t alone.

They call it forced-sex fantasy because rape implies violence. And for women who fantasize about this—it’s the fact that someone wants them so much, they can’t help themselves. Can’t take no for an answer. It’s more of the domination aspect of it.

He snorts, yanking up his jeans. “Please. No one asks to be raped, Blakely.”

I flinch. “Just because I have a fantasy doesn’t mean I want it to happen in real life. To me. To anyone for that matter.” The studies I found said that those who fantasize about it are the most erotically open and adventurous. I’m neither one of those things because I’m still a virgin. I think I have this dream because I want him to take me. I want him to dominate me, but he turns me down every time.

I think I dream about it happening on that trail because he has warned me about it not being safe. And somehow, I’ve connected the two.

He pulls his shirt down over his head and looks down at me. His lip is pulled back, and he shakes his head with disgust. “That’s fucking sick, Blakely. You’re fucked up.” And with that, he leaves my room, slamming the door behind him.

Ryat lays me on the bed, and I roll away, unable to face him right now. I hear him removing his jeans and T-shirt before he crawls in behind me.

The bed dips as he gets in. “Blake.” He places his hand on my shoulder and rolls me back to face him. “There is nothing wrong with you,” he says, running his fingertips along my cheek to push my hair off my tear-streaked face.