Saved by Brother's Best Friend (Marianna and Duane) novel Chapter 14

Marianna.

"Oh my god." Alina's eyes widen. Her mouth drops open. "You are a virgin, aren't you?"

Actually, I don’t really want to bring this up.

I—I’m not a virgin. But my sexual experience… isn’t extensive. To be honest, it’s only happened once—at my house when my parents weren’t home, back when I was with Marcus.

Marcus said I shouldn’t be so scared. He could definitely tell I was terrified, trembling so hard my teeth chattered. Then it all just happened—way too fast. His penis went inside me, and I felt like I was being split in two. The pain was blinding.

I pushed him away and he immediately started saying accusatory things. His face twisted with frustration, telling me, “You’re playing the victim here just because you have a frigid, screwed-up complex about sex.”

I told him to “Get out of my house.”

And in the end, as he grabbed his clothes, he looked back at me and told me, “You’re a mess.”

I’ve never mentioned this to anyone. Except maybe Marco, who might have a vague idea though he doesn't know the details.

So, when I looked at Alina’s face—her shocked, pitying expression—I couldn’t say a word.

She was right. In a way.

"I..." My voice is a frail, hollow whisper. "I should go to my room."

"Oh, honey." Alina's voice drips with something that might be pity, but feels like poison. "I didn't mean to embarrass you."

"I need to go," I say. "Excuse me."

Behind me, I hear the shower turn off. I hear Alina's bare footsteps heading back toward the master bedroom. Hear her voice, low and sweet, dropping the cruelty entirely: "I'm ordering Thai food. You want the usual?"

His response is too quiet for me to hear. Which is fine. I don't want to hear it.

I close the guest room door behind me. Lock it. I slide down to the floor with my back against the heavy wood, my legs crumpling underneath me, my cheap Target blazer bunching up around my shoulders.

I don't cry.

I must have fallen asleep at some point.

I don't remember getting into bed or changing out of my interview clothes. The room is dark. The city lights outside cast weird shadows on the ceiling, shapes that move and shift like living things.

I'm dreaming.

I know I'm dreaming because everything has that thick, underwater quality. Reality stretches like taffy into something unrecognizable. The grey guest room vanishes, replaced by the familiar, claustrophobic walls of my childhood bedroom.

I'm lying on a bed. My old bed. And Marcus is there.

He’s heavy, pressing me down into the mattress. He’s rough, his movements frantic and impatient. His hand moves aggressively to my breast, his grip bruising. A sharp spike of physical pain shoots through my chest.

I gasp, my eyes flying wide open, staring up at the ceiling of the dream.

"Marcus," I choke out, a reflexive, desperate protest.

"Shh," he murmurs, his mouth trailing hot, wet kisses down my neck, stifling my voice. "You're fine. You're doing so good."

I can't breathe. The air in the room is gone. He moves his hand lower, his knuckles dragging against my skin, hooking his fingers forcefully into the waistband of my underwear. He pulls them down with a violent yank. Then, his fingers reach into my vagina.

It's a sharp, invasive shock. I try to thrash, try to push him off, but before I can move, the nightmare fractures.

My body moves before my brain catches up, desperate for an anchor, desperate for something solid in the dark. I lunge forward. My arms wrap tightly around his torso, my face burying itself instantly into his chest. He's solid. He's warm. My fingers dig into the fabric of his shirt like a lifeline, my breath coming in ragged, hysterical gasps against his skin.

He goes completely still.

And then—slowly, horribly—reality filters back in. The smell of his cologne. The hard plane of his chest.

I'm hugging Duane Richter. Oh god.

I release him like he's made of fire. I scramble backward so fast I nearly fall off the edge of the mattress, my back hitting the headboard.

"I—" My voice is a strangled, humiliating thing. "I'm so sorry. I didn't—I wasn't—"

I look up at him. The ambient light from the city filters through the windows, casting him in pale silver.

His expression is incredibly grave. The hard lines of his jaw are locked tight.

Say something. Please say something. Tell me I'm pathetic. Anything is better than this heavy, crushing silence.

"I was dreaming," I manage to whisper, my throat raw. "I didn't mean to—"

"Marianna."

I stop talking.

He still hasn't moved. His grave, piercing gaze doesn't leave my face.

"Go back to sleep."