She screamed a blood curdling scream that somehow jolted me into movement, and yet I still didn't want to crawl out from under the table - didn't want to come out and face this new world.
Because my papa should have been drinking a whiskey by the fire, and Mama should have been humming some tunes as she cleared the table. But none of that was happening.
And so, I remained under the table even while the housekeeper called someone, sobbing and frantic in her explanation - even when she spoke my name - told them she didn't know where I was, that perhaps I had been taken. I still remained seated on those shades of blue and green that somehow had escaped all the blood and gore that my parents' deaths delivered.
There was a rightness to all the traumatic mess. Because my parents were vibrant and alive, and if they were to be taken from this world, it would not be done quietly. I imagined my papa was satisfied with the way his blood stained the tiles, my mother bleeding art along the floor.
It was only when the cleanup crew arrived that they found me. As Jakov squatted down to lift my mother's body, he spotted me under the table, and that was when things truly changed.
I jolted awake, the memory-dream icing my bones. It was always like this - neither fully a dream, nor fully a memory, because I knew that my mind filled in blanks of the puzzle that I couldn't possibly know - could not hope to recall, and so it wasn't wholly a memory, but it could never be shelved as simply a dream either.
I lay in the darkness, allowing my breathing to even out, wrestling my body into some semblance of calm. Her breathing synced with mine, and even in sleep, she had softened towards me. Her back was pressed towards me, her blonde hair hanging down her shoulder, pooling on the pillow.
My calloused fingers grazed her bare thigh before I even realised that I was reaching for her. But she didn't shift away - she never did. Instead, she rolled over, facing me, and moaned in her sleep, as if she somehow understood that I needed this - needed her.
I traced her thighs with my fingertips, slipping my index finger between her legs, swiping it through her slick folds. She moaned, and this time it was breathy - almost pained.
It had been a few weeks since Arlo's death, and there wasn't a time since then that I hadn't done this and found her not ready for me.
Her vanilla smell engulfed me, and I wanted to taste the essence of her on my tongue, but in this moment, I needed her wrapped around me more.
I guided her onto her back, allowing the weight of my body to settle upon her, and even in sleep, she parted her thighs for me.
I thrust into her in one deep, agonizing movement, and still she didn't wake. But I knew the drill by now - by the third thrust she would start moaning, and by thrust five her eyes would flutter open, and she'd look at me with nothing but need.
This would never get old.
Sleepy sex sessions were what dreams were made of, because you didn't have the weight of the woken world pressing upon you. Instead, you had darkness and passion.
I thrust into her as a small satisfied sigh slipped from her lips. I pulled out and back in as she parted those pouty, fuckable lips of hers and inhaled sharply. I repeated the motion, and on the third thrust she moaned from her throat, and that fucking sound shot straight to my balls. I pulled out and pushed back in as I felt her thighs open wider, her body's way of demanding more. And by the fifth thrust her eyelids fluttered open as she stared at me and moaned, "Dimi."
Yeah, this shit never got old.
Did she know that she alone held the nightmares at bay? That when I woke, it was now an automatic response for my body to seek hers out?
Claiming her was a bad fucking idea, but I wasn't going to let her go either.
Her breasts bounced in the darkness with each thrust and retreat, and it didn't take long for me to feel the tingle at the base of my spine, her presence settling upon the very air of the room.
I had learnt to ignore it - revel in it, even, but it was as if Isis herself was stepping in to ensure that I made my girl come.
I had fucked too many women whom I didn't give a shit about that such etiquette was long lost upon me, but I found myself wanting to please Corinne - wanting to watch her come undone by my hand - or tongue - or cock.
And so, when the tension inside of me became too much - when Corinne's moans turned unintelligible, I brushed a knuckle against her clit and pressed down upon it with the large family ring that rested upon my finger, the imprinted crest brushing against the clit of her pussy as my cock moved in and out of her.
She needed this as much as I did, and that was a frightening fucking thought, because two drowning people could only end in destruction.
Her head kicked back against the pillow as she shuddered beneath me, and as soon as her climax began to rip through her, so the pressure of Isis receded.
I came inside of her, clutching her thighs in a hard, bruising motion as I fought to catch my breath, but Corinne never moaned. It was as if she enjoyed wearing those bruises as much as I enjoyed giving them to her.
"Dimi," she sighed as she unraveled and came down from her own high.
I grunted, sliding out of her in a fluid motion as I lay next to her.
"We need to host a family dinner."
It was something we needed to do - had needed to do for a while now. Corinne turned her head towards me, a frown marred her forehead. Instinctively, my thumb swept along her brow, as if I could smooth her troubles away with my fucking fingers.
"Don't worry," I teased, "we'll get a caterer."