I must have said some pretty bad stuff in my sleep, because when I wake up the next morning, he’s staring up at the ceiling, looking tortured.
“What’s wrong?” I ask him.
He glances over at me, and his look instantly softens. “Nothing. How are you feeling?”
I’m feeling a lot of things. Violated, certainly. Grateful that I don’t remember him doing it to me, but disgusted that I still have the physical pain to prove that he did. Worried, too, about the possibility of getting pregnant. I’m guessing Dom wasn’t considerate enough to use a condom. I’m on the pill, but I like having the extra cushion.
I’m also a little sweaty, and it probably has more to do with craving the drugs than with the temperature in the room, but I don’t want to bring that up. I don’t want to think about drugs at that
