Chris’ body stiffened when the little girl’s voice came on his speaker phone and my own body tensed, after hearing what the little girl said. He immediately grabbed his mobile phone from the coffee table next to us and looked at the object in his hand like it was something alien to him. His facial expression was of a man confused, more than a man who was caught in a lie. I sat up and looked at him accusingly while my hands gathered my fallen robe on the floor. I felt dirty all of a sudden, and I felt like a cheap whore. I wanted to slap him hard across his face but my body numbed from the call and my mind was racing, searching, and seeking his eyes out for an answer. I managed to stand up and hurriedly put on my robe to cover my nakedness, still waiting for him to say something. I looked at him and he was fidgeting with his fucking phone, when he was supposed to be reassuring me, holding me, apologizing to me for everything. I wanted so bad to strike him, to curse him but then his mobile came on again, on speaker and I realized Chris redialed the number where the call came from on his mobile. A woman’s voice came on. “Hello?” she said, in a polite and some what relaxed and friendly tone. “Yes, someone from your number left a message on my mobile. A little girl calling for her daddy, the number it went to is 206-555-2141.” Chris almost sharply said to the woman. The woman sounded embarrassed and apologized that her daughter was trying to call her husband Roger and that the two numbers were transposed by the little girl. While the woman explained on the other line, Chris was looking at me, with a little grin on his face and while his other hand stroke my thigh inside my robe. After the woman hung up, I immediately sat next to Chris, who was still naked and with a semi-erection which was visibly calling out to me. He pushed my robe aside from my shoulders and tossed his mobile phone on the table as he grabbed the back of my head and pressed his face against mine for another kiss. Afterwards, he pulled away gently and cooed, “Now where were we, before the unwelcome interruption?” and he pressed his face on mine again and kissed me before I could offer any answer. I let his kiss take away all the anxiety and the irritation I felt when the call came in and I slowly relaxed again, with the passion and lust he provokes my body to heed. “Isabeau, the way your body tensed when that call came in, I did not like it.” Chris whispered in my ears. “I know. I’m sorry.” I whispered back to him. He looked me in the eyes and asked, “Say, I do have a child, or a wife, would that change how you are to me?” and my eyes lowered to the floor and when I looked back up at his face, I saw he was not joking. “Yes, unfortunately, no matter how attracted I am to you, I cannot see you like this or continue sleeping with you.” I said in a serious but thoughtful tone. I saw him nod in agreement with my statement. He touched my cheek with the back of his hand gently and said, “Luckily, the case is that I am wild about you and I am single. I want to keep seeing you, Isabeau. I hope you don’t find it too forward of me to say that, after all, I just got done having my way with you.” And he winked at me, his tone serious, his facial expression purposeful but the wink was intended in case I rejected his notion of dating me. The mighty doctor plays it safe, I can tell. His wistfulness was all meant for self preservation of his ego, his person and I found it to be attractive and inviting, rather than detracting. “I would love to see you again, Isabeau. I don’t want this at all if this is something only meant for the night.” He said somberly. I smiled at him. My eyes misted over with tears and excitement and gladness from all the words that were coming out of him. I wanted to speak, but my throat had a lump that can only be described as a result of trying to control myself from crying. He touched my lips, and then kissed them again. I felt my body lifted from the couch as he picked me up and started for my bedroom, with me in his arms.
That night, I dreamed of two men in a room. It was a room with antique tables and antique chairs with a small library of gold trimmed books, from Hemingway to James, Shakespeare and Blake. The two men were conversing and laughing, one with golden hair and the other dark. Their voices were friendly at first, then rising into a crescendo of a debate. And then the golden haired one slammed the hard bound book he was holding on the table near him as the dark haired one stood up from the chair and approached the light haired one. The golden haired man was Henry. His lips curled into an angry scowl as the dark haired one continued to pick up the book he had slammed on the table. When the dark haired one turned towards the sofa, I could see it was Chris. As he walked away from Henry, his lips moved as though he was speaking about the book but I realized that in dreams, the person can be talking directly to the dreamer. Chris was mouthing the words, “Hank thinks he’s Dorian Gray” to me. His beautiful mouth kept repeating the words over and over again. And my dream shifted to the vision behind him. It was Henry behind Chris and he had something in his hand. It caught the sunlight outside the room’s window. The “thing” reflected the light coming in and Henry brought it up over his head as he walked towards Chris, while Chris flipped the pages in the book, completely oblivious to the approaching Henry. I was trying very hard to see what it was that Henry had in his hand and I discovered it was a knife! I tried to cry out to Chris, to warn him, to turn around, but the sound won’t escape my lips, and I couldn’t speak. Henry inched closer to the unsuspecting Chris, the knife still held above him and ready to bring it down on Chris’ back. The knife went down and I saw the handsome face of Chris in agony as he tried to turn around to look at his brother who just drove the knife deeper. Henry looked malevolent. I cried out, “No, no, Henry, no, please!” and my pleas carried out to my sleep as Chris who was sleeping next to me woke me up. “Isabeau, wake up sweetheart, you’re having a bad dream.” I heard Chris say to me. I sat up; my body shuddered from the dream. Chris sat up too, as he stroked my back gently. “What were you dreaming about? You cried out Hank’s name. Was it a really bad dream?” He asked me thoughtfully. I nodded and he rested my head on his shoulder, all the while stroking my hair. “I dreamt of you and Henry together, in a room, with antique books all around and you two were arguing.” I muttered under my breath. “That sounds about accurate on how we have interacted back in college.” Chris said in understanding to my statement. I wanted to tell him that my dream was a lot more intense than just the two of them arguing and that it ended with him with a knife in his back, but I digressed and did not make mention of it. It was nice that he was with me in my bed, because I really did not want to be alone for the night. My eyelids started to feel heavy as Chris continued to stroke my hair and my back; my head still nestled on his shoulder. I was falling asleep again but I forced my eyelids open for fear that if I fell asleep, I would dream the same awful dream again. I tried to keep my eyes from closing but they were getting heavier with each caress Chris gave my back. And then it happened, darkness came to me and I was asleep.
I didn't dream anymore, I was half asleep and half awake most of the time and I watched Chris just sleep soundly next to me. He was a very good looking man and his demeanor is of someone who doesn't know how good looking he was. I liked that a lot about him. He kept his arms around me unlike most men when the girl falls asleep, they stop cuddling the girl. I finally couldn’t get back to a deeper sleep since I have kept myself half awake for fear of dreaming something sinister again that I started playing with Chris’ hair. Even his hair is gorgeous for a man and he kept it longer than most men would. It reminded me of Christian Bale’s hair in “Out of the Furnace” where the glorious actor played a mine worker. I remember the movie being too hard for me to watch but Henry seemed to have taken a liking to it, I guess, because of the violence and the gore. One thing Henry seemed very odd about was the fact that he is clearly from a very wealthy family and yet, he took fancy to the underworld, the poor and the impoverished lifestyle. I wondered if Chris was the same. Chris stirred slightly from his sleep as I touched his face. His eyes slowly opened and looked upon me. “Hey there, you can’t sleep?” He asked softly. I looked at him and told him that I couldn’t go back to sleep and that I was enjoying myself, watching as his chest rhythmically moved up and down as he breathed in his slumber. He smiled and told me that he was doing the same thing earlier before my “bad dream”. His arm went around my shoulders and his other hand moved aside the stray strand of hair on my forehead and he kissed me lightly. He gazed into my eyes and tenderly recited a ditty, a line from a poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay. When I complimented him of the choice of poet, he seemed really pleased that I knew who wrote the poem. “How old are you again, my dearest Isabeau?” He asked incredulously, as if emphasizing that he was in disbelief of my ability to know his type of literature, or rather, the time of his literature. I reached out across over him to grab my mobile from the nightstand, my breasts brushing across his face, while I answered “twenty eight, my dear doctor.” I guess my answer did not matter at that moment when my breasts brushed against his face because all I know was that his lips clamped onto my nipple immediately and he started licking and running his tongue over it. I started laughing at his quick action to catch my breasts with his mouth. I tried to shield them with my one free arm while I held my mobile with the other, but Chris wrestled me down and got on top of me. His other hand kept trying to reach my phone to pry it away from my hand and I kept on moving my hand away from him. He started laughing and told me I was being a brat since I have asked him not to turn his phone or laptop on and here I was checking my hand set for messages. He kept saying I don’t play fair. Finally, I told him that we don’t have much time until it is morning and we both have not had a decent time to sleep, thinking he would relent from trying to get my phone and just sleep, but Chris pinned both my arms over my head and stared down at my face and then started kissing me. His kisses send thrilling electricity through my whole being and I found myself thinking, “fuck sleep”, as he worked his tongue to meet my tongue while kissing me deeply. I felt his legs moved between my legs and his knees prying my thighs apart. I brought my knees up to his side and he penetrated my sex with his, all the while his mouth on mine. I am beginning to like the restriction he places on my breathing and my lips when he enters me. It is very erotic to not be able to gasp, let out a cry or moan as his cock fills me up. I feel as though I am being suffocated but in pleasure, instead of pain or agony. And then he raised his face from mine as he looked down in my eyes while his body thrust in me. I felt him leave my sex then pierce it again, slowly, as though he was performing a surgery, only his cock is the instrument slipping in and out of me. I was in heaven. He was making love to me at first but my cries of pleasure changed his rhythm and he was driving his body, his sex in me faster and deeper until I knew what it felt like to be fucked by someone whose initial intention was to love my body, but now forcefully commanding it to submit to his. And just like that, he made me come over and over again. I grabbed onto him like my whole life depended on the ecstasy I felt as I let go to feel my orgasms, as they overtook me and he was meeting my cum with his, and his breathing matching mine. And then he laid half on top of me as he grunted his last “ah” after he came and gazed at me lovingly, smiling the same sensuous and devilish grin I find so enticing. “My dear girl, if my heart succumbs to a cardiac arrest, what a way to go.” He mumbled. “I have never desired anyone like I desire you. Where o where did you get this beautiful shell, Isabeau?” he continued, half whispering and half blurting the words, his breathing ragged but slowly subsiding to normal.
I watched him slowly closed his eyes and not a minute later, his breathing became rhythmically steady as sleep came to him. I caressed his cheek as his breathing became deeper, signaling that he was in deep slumber. It was satisfying to just look at his beautiful vision. His eyelids fluttered and I could see he was dreaming. It was my turn to watch him while he dreamed. His lips curled into a smile. He was having a pleasant dream and he was muttering something I couldn’t quite make out so I leaned closer to hear what it was he was saying. “Talk to me baby,” I softly said to encourage him to speak more clearly. I leaned closer and closer. I felt bad that I was spying on him while he was unconscious, but there was a deep need in me to penetrate his barrier, if there is any, just as he has penetrated my body, my being. I want to know everything about him all of a sudden. Not because I want to compare him to his half brother, but because I was genuinely intrigued by him. He was still speaking so low in his dream that I felt almost tempted to record what he was saying in my mobile phone to listen to it later, to decipher and to analyze what it was he was saying. Oh, god I felt horrible for invading his dream privacy, but I couldn’t stop myself. I want so bad to hear and understand what it was he was mumbling. “Chris, tell me what it is, baby.” I tenderly cajoled him. His eyelids fluttered more rapidly. It was a sign that his dream is becoming more vivid for him. And then I leaned closer again as I saw his lips moved. He mumbled, “I miss you.” And I leaned closer to his lips and pecked his cheek lightly. His lips started to curl into a smile again, so I whispered to him, “Who do you miss, Chris? Tell me. Who do you miss?” I softly said, encouraging him to keep talking. And I heard him clearly this time. He said, “I miss you very much, Cassandra.”
I slowly but deliberately pulled away from him the moment I heard the name he said. I was disturbed by what I heard. I cursed myself under my breath. That was what I get for being nosy. I deserved that shit because he was vulnerable and I invaded his privacy. That was when I told myself that just because you fucked him, it didn’t mean that you already owned his private moments, such as when he was dreaming and most susceptible to interference, to my invasion and disrespect of his privacy. I was ashamed of myself and was disappointed from what I have heard come out of his mouth. In his most vulnerable and most helpless, it wasn’t my name or me that he carries with him. It was another woman. And it dawned on me that as much desire he has professed to me earlier, everything that transpired between us were all just physical desires. There was no depth to it. I felt like crying out. I don’t understand the emotions going through me right now. I was very, very disappointed that it wasn’t my name he called out. “Why? Why does it matter?” I thought to myself quietly. I told him that I was an adult, and told him that I had no expectations when he fucked me, except for a momentary comfort. It was only to comfort me, to help me relax and to put my mind that has been plagued by strange memories and visions of Henry at ease. So why then, do I feel bitter over a name he said in his dream? God, I wished he were awake so I can ask him. Hold on Isabeau, why on earth would I want to ask him, I thought irritated with how my mind is processing what just transpired. This is completely unlike me. Yes, sure he rocked me world in the sack, but as I have surmised earlier, it does not entitle me to his life. We were two adults coming into the act of physical pleasure. It would really be great if I kept my mind on the fact that it was only a physical connection. All these other emotions I am suddenly attaching to our copulation are big no-nos. I had no right to listen to him while he was dreaming. I had no right to expect that my effect on him would carry out to his subconscious. That was a tall order for me to think that I had such an impact on him. I was telling myself all these logic to make sense of what I was feeling and to snap me out of this horrid perception of the situation when suddenly; I felt tears building up in my eyes. Oh god, I am about to cry like some spurned teenager in High School when the most popular jock you wanted to ask you out to the prom ended up asking someone else. What the fuck is wrong with me? I looked at Chris again, he was still sleeping and he was no longer dreaming in his sleep and he seemed so restful that I clamped my hand down my lips to prevent sound to come out and wake this lovely man in my bed. My chest was heaving from the ragged breathing I was experiencing because of sadness, confusion and jealousy. Then, it hit me! I was feeling jealous! Oh my! And after admitting to the jealousy, I heard myself giggle nervously. I couldn't believe it! I feel jealousy. Over a name he said in his sleep! I clamped my hand on my lips tighter because the nervous laughter and the pathetic sadness I was feeling tried to escape and that was the last thing I want him to wake up to, my horrible contradiction of emotions! Even Henry was never successful in making me feel a twinge of jealousy and here is his half brother in my bed, not even 48 hours had passed between us, making me feel as though I was a forlorn lover cast aside. Cassandra! What a fucking silly name for a woman! I giggled harder at the direction my mind took me when I realized; my lips actually said her name out loud! And I looked at Chris, only to be met by his irritated gaze.
That night, I dreamed of two men in a room. It was a room with antique tables and antique chairs with a small library of gold trimmed books, from Hemingway to James, Shakespeare and Blake. The two men were conversing and laughing, one with golden hair and the other dark. Their voices were friendly at first, then rising into a crescendo of a debate. And then the golden haired one slammed the hard bound book he was holding on the table near him as the dark haired one stood up from the chair and approached the light haired one. The golden haired man was Henry. His lips curled into an angry scowl as the dark haired one continued to pick up the book he had slammed on the table. When the dark haired one turned towards the sofa, I could see it was Chris. As he walked away from Henry, his lips moved as though he was speaking about the book but I realized that in dreams, the person can be talking directly to the dreamer. Chris was mouthing the words, “Hank thinks he’s Dorian Gray” to me. His beautiful mouth kept repeating the words over and over again. And my dream shifted to the vision behind him. It was Henry behind Chris and he had something in his hand. It caught the sunlight outside the room’s window. The “thing” reflected the light coming in and Henry brought it up over his head as he walked towards Chris, while Chris flipped the pages in the book, completely oblivious to the approaching Henry. I was trying very hard to see what it was that Henry had in his hand and I discovered it was a knife! I tried to cry out to Chris, to warn him, to turn around, but the sound won’t escape my lips, and I couldn’t speak. Henry inched closer to the unsuspecting Chris, the knife still held above him and ready to bring it down on Chris’ back. The knife went down and I saw the handsome face of Chris in agony as he tried to turn around to look at his brother who just drove the knife deeper. Henry looked malevolent. I cried out, “No, no, Henry, no, please!” and my pleas carried out to my sleep as Chris who was sleeping next to me woke me up. “Isabeau, wake up sweetheart, you’re having a bad dream.” I heard Chris say to me. I sat up; my body shuddered from the dream. Chris sat up too, as he stroked my back gently. “What were you dreaming about? You cried out Hank’s name. Was it a really bad dream?” He asked me thoughtfully. I nodded and he rested my head on his shoulder, all the while stroking my hair. “I dreamt of you and Henry together, in a room, with antique books all around and you two were arguing.” I muttered under my breath. “That sounds about accurate on how we have interacted back in college.” Chris said in understanding to my statement. I wanted to tell him that my dream was a lot more intense than just the two of them arguing and that it ended with him with a knife in his back, but I digressed and did not make mention of it. It was nice that he was with me in my bed, because I really did not want to be alone for the night. My eyelids started to feel heavy as Chris continued to stroke my hair and my back; my head still nestled on his shoulder. I was falling asleep again but I forced my eyelids open for fear that if I fell asleep, I would dream the same awful dream again. I tried to keep my eyes from closing but they were getting heavier with each caress Chris gave my back. And then it happened, darkness came to me and I was asleep.
I didn't dream anymore, I was half asleep and half awake most of the time and I watched Chris just sleep soundly next to me. He was a very good looking man and his demeanor is of someone who doesn't know how good looking he was. I liked that a lot about him. He kept his arms around me unlike most men when the girl falls asleep, they stop cuddling the girl. I finally couldn’t get back to a deeper sleep since I have kept myself half awake for fear of dreaming something sinister again that I started playing with Chris’ hair. Even his hair is gorgeous for a man and he kept it longer than most men would. It reminded me of Christian Bale’s hair in “Out of the Furnace” where the glorious actor played a mine worker. I remember the movie being too hard for me to watch but Henry seemed to have taken a liking to it, I guess, because of the violence and the gore. One thing Henry seemed very odd about was the fact that he is clearly from a very wealthy family and yet, he took fancy to the underworld, the poor and the impoverished lifestyle. I wondered if Chris was the same. Chris stirred slightly from his sleep as I touched his face. His eyes slowly opened and looked upon me. “Hey there, you can’t sleep?” He asked softly. I looked at him and told him that I couldn’t go back to sleep and that I was enjoying myself, watching as his chest rhythmically moved up and down as he breathed in his slumber. He smiled and told me that he was doing the same thing earlier before my “bad dream”. His arm went around my shoulders and his other hand moved aside the stray strand of hair on my forehead and he kissed me lightly. He gazed into my eyes and tenderly recited a ditty, a line from a poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay. When I complimented him of the choice of poet, he seemed really pleased that I knew who wrote the poem. “How old are you again, my dearest Isabeau?” He asked incredulously, as if emphasizing that he was in disbelief of my ability to know his type of literature, or rather, the time of his literature. I reached out across over him to grab my mobile from the nightstand, my breasts brushing across his face, while I answered “twenty eight, my dear doctor.” I guess my answer did not matter at that moment when my breasts brushed against his face because all I know was that his lips clamped onto my nipple immediately and he started licking and running his tongue over it. I started laughing at his quick action to catch my breasts with his mouth. I tried to shield them with my one free arm while I held my mobile with the other, but Chris wrestled me down and got on top of me. His other hand kept trying to reach my phone to pry it away from my hand and I kept on moving my hand away from him. He started laughing and told me I was being a brat since I have asked him not to turn his phone or laptop on and here I was checking my hand set for messages. He kept saying I don’t play fair. Finally, I told him that we don’t have much time until it is morning and we both have not had a decent time to sleep, thinking he would relent from trying to get my phone and just sleep, but Chris pinned both my arms over my head and stared down at my face and then started kissing me. His kisses send thrilling electricity through my whole being and I found myself thinking, “fuck sleep”, as he worked his tongue to meet my tongue while kissing me deeply. I felt his legs moved between my legs and his knees prying my thighs apart. I brought my knees up to his side and he penetrated my sex with his, all the while his mouth on mine. I am beginning to like the restriction he places on my breathing and my lips when he enters me. It is very erotic to not be able to gasp, let out a cry or moan as his cock fills me up. I feel as though I am being suffocated but in pleasure, instead of pain or agony. And then he raised his face from mine as he looked down in my eyes while his body thrust in me. I felt him leave my sex then pierce it again, slowly, as though he was performing a surgery, only his cock is the instrument slipping in and out of me. I was in heaven. He was making love to me at first but my cries of pleasure changed his rhythm and he was driving his body, his sex in me faster and deeper until I knew what it felt like to be fucked by someone whose initial intention was to love my body, but now forcefully commanding it to submit to his. And just like that, he made me come over and over again. I grabbed onto him like my whole life depended on the ecstasy I felt as I let go to feel my orgasms, as they overtook me and he was meeting my cum with his, and his breathing matching mine. And then he laid half on top of me as he grunted his last “ah” after he came and gazed at me lovingly, smiling the same sensuous and devilish grin I find so enticing. “My dear girl, if my heart succumbs to a cardiac arrest, what a way to go.” He mumbled. “I have never desired anyone like I desire you. Where o where did you get this beautiful shell, Isabeau?” he continued, half whispering and half blurting the words, his breathing ragged but slowly subsiding to normal.
I watched him slowly closed his eyes and not a minute later, his breathing became rhythmically steady as sleep came to him. I caressed his cheek as his breathing became deeper, signaling that he was in deep slumber. It was satisfying to just look at his beautiful vision. His eyelids fluttered and I could see he was dreaming. It was my turn to watch him while he dreamed. His lips curled into a smile. He was having a pleasant dream and he was muttering something I couldn’t quite make out so I leaned closer to hear what it was he was saying. “Talk to me baby,” I softly said to encourage him to speak more clearly. I leaned closer and closer. I felt bad that I was spying on him while he was unconscious, but there was a deep need in me to penetrate his barrier, if there is any, just as he has penetrated my body, my being. I want to know everything about him all of a sudden. Not because I want to compare him to his half brother, but because I was genuinely intrigued by him. He was still speaking so low in his dream that I felt almost tempted to record what he was saying in my mobile phone to listen to it later, to decipher and to analyze what it was he was saying. Oh, god I felt horrible for invading his dream privacy, but I couldn’t stop myself. I want so bad to hear and understand what it was he was mumbling. “Chris, tell me what it is, baby.” I tenderly cajoled him. His eyelids fluttered more rapidly. It was a sign that his dream is becoming more vivid for him. And then I leaned closer again as I saw his lips moved. He mumbled, “I miss you.” And I leaned closer to his lips and pecked his cheek lightly. His lips started to curl into a smile again, so I whispered to him, “Who do you miss, Chris? Tell me. Who do you miss?” I softly said, encouraging him to keep talking. And I heard him clearly this time. He said, “I miss you very much, Cassandra.”
I slowly but deliberately pulled away from him the moment I heard the name he said. I was disturbed by what I heard. I cursed myself under my breath. That was what I get for being nosy. I deserved that shit because he was vulnerable and I invaded his privacy. That was when I told myself that just because you fucked him, it didn’t mean that you already owned his private moments, such as when he was dreaming and most susceptible to interference, to my invasion and disrespect of his privacy. I was ashamed of myself and was disappointed from what I have heard come out of his mouth. In his most vulnerable and most helpless, it wasn’t my name or me that he carries with him. It was another woman. And it dawned on me that as much desire he has professed to me earlier, everything that transpired between us were all just physical desires. There was no depth to it. I felt like crying out. I don’t understand the emotions going through me right now. I was very, very disappointed that it wasn’t my name he called out. “Why? Why does it matter?” I thought to myself quietly. I told him that I was an adult, and told him that I had no expectations when he fucked me, except for a momentary comfort. It was only to comfort me, to help me relax and to put my mind that has been plagued by strange memories and visions of Henry at ease. So why then, do I feel bitter over a name he said in his dream? God, I wished he were awake so I can ask him. Hold on Isabeau, why on earth would I want to ask him, I thought irritated with how my mind is processing what just transpired. This is completely unlike me. Yes, sure he rocked me world in the sack, but as I have surmised earlier, it does not entitle me to his life. We were two adults coming into the act of physical pleasure. It would really be great if I kept my mind on the fact that it was only a physical connection. All these other emotions I am suddenly attaching to our copulation are big no-nos. I had no right to listen to him while he was dreaming. I had no right to expect that my effect on him would carry out to his subconscious. That was a tall order for me to think that I had such an impact on him. I was telling myself all these logic to make sense of what I was feeling and to snap me out of this horrid perception of the situation when suddenly; I felt tears building up in my eyes. Oh god, I am about to cry like some spurned teenager in High School when the most popular jock you wanted to ask you out to the prom ended up asking someone else. What the fuck is wrong with me? I looked at Chris again, he was still sleeping and he was no longer dreaming in his sleep and he seemed so restful that I clamped my hand down my lips to prevent sound to come out and wake this lovely man in my bed. My chest was heaving from the ragged breathing I was experiencing because of sadness, confusion and jealousy. Then, it hit me! I was feeling jealous! Oh my! And after admitting to the jealousy, I heard myself giggle nervously. I couldn't believe it! I feel jealousy. Over a name he said in his sleep! I clamped my hand on my lips tighter because the nervous laughter and the pathetic sadness I was feeling tried to escape and that was the last thing I want him to wake up to, my horrible contradiction of emotions! Even Henry was never successful in making me feel a twinge of jealousy and here is his half brother in my bed, not even 48 hours had passed between us, making me feel as though I was a forlorn lover cast aside. Cassandra! What a fucking silly name for a woman! I giggled harder at the direction my mind took me when I realized; my lips actually said her name out loud! And I looked at Chris, only to be met by his irritated gaze.