A Many Splintered Thing / Day 18: “Don’t, don’t, don’t do this, Dahlia...”

I made it! Crazy day. Slept too late, coffee (chug), shake (chug), workout, bank, hobby shop, errands for girl child's belated tiny birthday party. And then finally home to try and eke out a few words. Those words are below. Now I'm going to sit here for a few minutes, stare blankly at the wall, before trying to figure out dinner for later.

Om.

XOXO
Sommer

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Dahlia  
She laid there long enough to grow sober again. And awake. Very awake. There was a wind blowing around the house that sounded as at-odds with itself as she felt. It wouldn’t storm. She could tell. But the implication that it might brought back memories of months she’s spent on the east coast where a sudden wind in August could mean violent thunderstorms.
Dahlia rolled to her side and faced the door. A sliver of light showed beneath the door and she realized how very bizarre it felt to have another human in the house with her. It had been months and months since anyone had been here at the house. It had been one of the auxiliary maids who’d needed a place to stay while her apartment was fumigated. She’d only been here for two days.
How long would Caleb be here?
She rolled to her back again. Face tilted toward the ceiling. The wind tossed the bushes outside her window triggering the sensor-controlled light. Shadows danced across her wall and she shut her eyes tight trying very hard to fall asleep.
But it wasn’t working. It was late and she was sober and that sucked.
The light went off and then she heard the squeaky door two doors down from her room. There were five other rooms for him to choose from but that particular room felt the most masculine. She wasn’t surprised he’d chosen it. Dahlia felt her heart pick up knowing he was so close.
“Could be worse. He could be right next door,” she said.
She rolled toward the opposite wall. “Turn regularly to ensure even wear and tear,” she said, and snorted. “And now you’re talking to yourself.”
She shut her eyes, trying to calm her heart, trying to shut up her mind, but it was impossible. Her pulse beat heavy in her face, her neck and lower. Desire curled in her belly and she considered, briefly, finding her vibrator and just taking care of business.
Dahlia sat up, pressed her hands to her face, and listened to the scratching dance of the bougainvillea outside her window. Harrison’s beloved flowers. No one knew why he loved them so much. They were amused that he did. Well, the staff was. Jasmine, not so much.
She groaned and sat up, her feet hit the pale woven rug by the side of her bed. She bunched and released her toes trying desperately to release tension from her body. She did the same to her calves and then her thighs. That was a mistake. The tense and release method she’d employed for a long time when it came to anxiety bit her on the ass when it traveled straight to her pussy.
Bit her on the ass but didn’t surprise her in the least. She’d gone to bed because she’d been sitting there thinking about shoving her hands into his short dark hair and kissing him. Thinking about pushing him back in that stupid kitchen chair and unbuttoning his pants and crawling into his lap.
She ran her hands through her hair. It was loose around her shoulders now. Wavy from the braids. She twisted it up, wound it into a bun and then released it. It whipped wickedly around and then fanned out around her shoulders again. The kiss of soft hairs on her skin only heightened her arousal.
“Don’t do this,” she said. She gripped the bed sheets in her hands and squeezed. “Don’t, don’t, don’tdo this, Dahlia,” she said.
But she stood as she said it.
Her head pounded with pressure, her heart flip-flopped insanely making her feel shaky and she trailed her fingertips down the three raise scars on her chest. They’d once marked her as a victim, she now considered that they marked her as a survivor. A victor, even.
She’d spent years hiding them. But once she was emancipated by the state, she didn’t bother any more. She was stronger than what tried to hurt her—what might have even killed her—she deserved to show that off.
She gripped the rug in her toes again as if it could root her to her spot. Instead it only amplified her need. It had been about six months since she’d gotten laid. She only slept with men who aroused her on every level. And this man did.
The fact that Jas was trying to set him up as her boy toy in the guest house only made it more insane. The fact that she felt powerless to deny herself at least the chance at him made it ridiculous. But she found herself walking slowly to her bedroom door.
“Don’t,” she said. And then she opened the door.
She told herself she had a ton of time to talk herself out of it. More time than she would have if he’d chosen the room right next door to hers. He’d done her a favor, actually. He’d given her a whole twenty more paces to talk herself out of it.
She passed the door of the room next to hers and whispered, “Okay, good time to turn around.”
The window at the end of the hall showed the shrubbery whipping in the wind. She held her breath and watched it—the play of light and shadow. And then she kept walking.
Outside his door she stood there, staring. Her stomach dropping like she’d taken a ride on a questionable elevator. She could open the door and find him sleeping.
Then I’d leave.
She knew it was a lie. Then she’s wake him.
Or she could open the door and be rejected.
Wouldn’t happen. Remember that kiss? Remember his eyes on you?
She could open the door and change her mind.
Nope. The fact that I’m standing here with my heart pounding proves my mindset.
“Stop,” she said. And then she turned the knob. If he was welcoming of her, he’d forgive her for not knocking. If he sent her packing, it didn’t matter anyway.
She pushed the door wide and stood there, letting her eyes adjust to the light –or more, to the absence of light. He’d pulled the blackout shade down on his window but for the last three inches. It was the only light in the room but for an ambient glow from the automatic nightlight in the adjoining bathroom.
She stood there longer, feeling a bit panicky, trying to tame the bird-beating-its-wings sensation in her chest. She inhaled deeply and held her breath for a few seconds before exhaling as silently as she could.
Then she startled when he said, “Are you coming in, Dahlia, or are you just going to stand there?” 


photo credit: KendraMillerPhotography via photopin cc