Lost in a Reverie 18+ Only (Book 1 of Lastor Series) ['23/'24 EDIT]

Chapter 40

I came to it at the feel of hot water against my skin. It wasn't scalding, but it was enough to jolt me into alertness.

"Sshhh... you're okay," a voice whispered, lips pressed against my ear.

I relaxed as the voice registered and I felt heat surge through me when I was reminded of the last thing I saw before everything went black.

The awe. The satisfaction. The pure unadulterated desire. It was in his eyes as he watched me come upon the seams at a flick of his thumb.

I swallowed hard, pressing my thighs together as I felt the steady arousal that lingered in my system. It didn't help that his cock was pressed against my back, hard and hotter than the fucking water.

"Hi there," Rick whispered, his lips brushing against my shoulder.

I held back a shiver at the feel of his breath on my skin. I cleared my throat forcefully and sat up, intending to move away from him but he kept me in place.

"You look embarrassed."

I glared at him from the corner of my eye as he rested the side of his head against my shoulder, a smug grin etched on his lips.

"You look proud of yourself," I fired back, splashing him with water.

He chuckled, nuzzling against my neck and I tried not to let such a simple act affect me. Christ, I was acting like a hormonal virgin.

"I was only trying to calm you. You passing out on me wasn't part of the plan," he said, humor apparent in his voice.

I scoffed. "It's called fatigue and famine."

His humor immediately vanished. He was frowning, eyeing me in concern.

"I don't want to offend you but... why don't you eat?"

I pursed my lips as I wrapped my arms around my abdomen, feeling a sudden discomfort. Mother always reminded me when I was young, and whenever she could, that I had to be mindful of my weight and my face.

'If you're going to be a bâtarde, at least be a pretty one,' she had once said.

When I was still a little girl and we would eat our meals at the dinner table together, she would always tell my nanny to take away my plate after exactly ten bites from it. As I entered adolescence, it became five bites every meal. If I ate more, Mother would scold me, calling me greedy, fat, and ugly. She often pinched my arm and stretched it, telling me to lose what she could hold.

And then, I settled on a pattern. I stopped eating. It was better not to eat than to put a spoon to my mouth and listen to her go on and on about how disgusting my stomach was whenever I sat and how ugly my arms looked whenever I wore a dress.

On my eighteenth birthday, she had sent a dress for me with a note saying, "This is you."

I didn't get that cryptic message then but as the years passed, party after party, dress after dress, I realized what she had meant. My size. It was a silent order. Telling me not to be larger than I was. Less is more, after all.

I felt Rick grasp my chin, tilting my head to look at him.

"Tell me."

Two simple words asking for so much.

I averted my eyes. "I'm useless without my looks."

"Who the hell told you that?"

"It's true, isn't it?" I chuckled humorlessly. "I mean, you wouldn't have spared me a glance if I don't look the way I do."