Read Fever 4 - DreamFever for Free Online Page A

eye-pod, although it does not
look to me as if it was ever a pod for eyes, and with it he makes many sounds. He plays
songs over and over and watches me carefully, even when I do not dance.
      Some of the songs make me angry and I do not like them. I try to make him stop
playing them, but he holds the eye-pod over my head and I cannot reach it. I like hard,
sexy songs, like "Pussy Liquor" and "Foxy, Foxy." He likes to play peppy, happy
songs, and I am beyond sick of "What a Wonderful World" and "Tubthumping." He
watches me, always watches me, when he plays them. They have stupid names and I
hate them.
      Sometimes he shows me pictures. I hate those, too. They are of others, most often a
woman he calls Alina. I do not know why he needs pictures of her when he has me!
Looking at her makes me feel hot and cold at the same time. Looking at her hurts me.
     Sometimes he tells me stories. His favorite one is about a book that is really a
monster that could destroy the world. Boring!
      Once he told me a story about Alina and said she died. I screamed at him and wept,
and I do not know why. Today he showed me something new. Photos of a man he calls
Jack Lane. I tore them up and threw the pieces at him.
       Now I have forgiven him because I have him inside me, and he's got his big hands on
my petunia--I do not know that word, or where it came from!--rump, and he's doing
that slow, erotic bump and grind so smooth and deep that makes me purr to the bottom
of my toes and kissing me so hard I cannot breathe around it and I do not want to. He is
in my soul and I am in his, and we are in bed but we are in a desert, and I do not know
where he begins and I end, and I suppose if his peculiar madness is music and photos
and stories that chafe, it is a small price to pay for such pleasure.
       He comes hard, shuddering. I match him, bucking with each shudder. When he
comes, he makes a noise deep in his throat that is so raw and animal and sexual that I
think if he merely looked at me and made that noise, I might explode in an orgasm.
      He holds me. He smells good. I drowse.
      He starts with his stupid stories again.
     "I do not care." I raise my head from his chest. "Stop talking at me." I cover his
mouth with my hand. He pushes it away.
      "You must care, Mac."
      "I am so sick of that word! I do not know `Mac.' I do not like your pictures. I hate
your stories!"
       "Mac is your name. You are MacKayla Lane. Mac for short. It is who you are. You
are a sidhe-seer. It is what you are. You were raised by Jack and Rainey Lane. They are
your parents and love you. They need you very much. Alina was your sister. She was
murdered."
      "Stop talking! I will not listen." I clamp my hands to my ears.
      He pries them away. "You love pink."
       "I despise pink! I love red and black." The colors of blood and death. The colors of
the tattoos on his beautiful body that cover his legs, his abdomen, half his chest, and
twine up one side of his neck.
     He rolls me over beneath him and traps my face between his hands. "Look at me.
Who am I?"
      There is something I have forgotten. I do not want to remember. "You are my lover."
      "I was not always, Mac. There was a time when you didn't even like me. You have
never trusted me."
       Why does he tell me lies? Why does he seek to ruin what we have? It is now. It is
perfect. There is no cold, no pain, no death, no betrayal, no icy places, no terrifying
monsters that can steal your will and turn you into something you cannot even
recognize and make you feel ashamed, so ashamed. There is only pleasure here, endless
pleasure.
      "I trust you," I say. "We are the same."
      His smile is sharp as knives. "We are not. I've told you that before. Never make that
mistake. We meet in lust. But we are not the same. Never will be."
      "You worry about things of no importance. And you talk too much."
      "You got me a birthday cake. It was pink. I smashed it into the ceiling."
      I do not know