In 3000 words or less, tell a story about a young woman that lost her memory. She wakes up in a cabin with a man that she doesn't know. What happens?
The following is 18+
Intended for mature audiences
The following is 18+
Intended for mature audiences
“Shhh, it’s me, Damien.” The unfamiliar deep voice rumbles behind the bare, sculpted chest of the man sitting across from me. I narrow my eyes in an effort to bring forth any sense of memory.
Nothing but darkness.
In my head.
In my heart.
And right in front of me.
This man is bad, I can feel it.
“Who are you?”
He reaches a muscled arm toward my leg and I draw both of my knees up to my chest to escape his touch. His frown is immediate and it quickens the pace of my heart. I’d almost say I know, deep down, that he’s hurt me before. My body’s initial reaction is to stay away from his touch.
“I’m your husband, love.” His lips curve up into a half smile that causes heat to creep up my neck. I don’t want to like his smile but I can’t help it. It’s beautiful.
Dragging my gaze away from his handsome face, I stare down at the massive diamond on my ring finger. Married. To this man.
“I don’t understand. Why don’t I remember?” Tears well in my eyes but don’t fall. I swallow down the terror of my situation and attempt to understand who the hell I am.
“Do you know your name?”
I lift my gaze back to his tender one that causes my chest to ache before jerking it to the window behind him. Snow. Lots and lots of it. Everyfuckingwhere. We’re out here in a remote cabin in the middle of nowhere and I’m his captive. I think.
“Umm…” I trail off and scrunch my brows together as I attempt to figure out that vital piece of information.
“Sarah Rose Hunt,” he provides with a soft voice. “Born April 6th, 1981 to George and Regina LeBlanc in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. Your favorite color is black, you gothic geek, and you drink coffee as if it nourishes your soul somehow.”
At the mention of coffee, I inhale. I can smell it and a sense of longing fills me. Perhaps this man does know me. Maybe I’m not his captive.
“Can I have some?”
He flashes me a wicked grin that jolts me right to my core. “Of course.”
Damien rises from his chair from beside the couch and saunters off toward the open kitchen. In an attempt not to stare at his nice firm ass in his low-slung jeans, I inspect my surroundings. The small cabin doesn’t seem any bigger than a thousand square feet but it’s been elegantly decorated. The kitchen is sleek with granite countertops and stainless steel appliances. A massive flat screen is mounted above the roaring fireplace. And the sofa I’m lounging on is a soft, most likely expensive leather.
We’re hardly roughing it out here. Wherever here is.
Moments later, he returns with a steaming mug and I sip it with minimal hesitation.
“God,” I agree with a slight moan, “this is so good. You’re right. I do love coffee.”
He winks at me. “Told you.” He then sits in the chair and leans back, his gaze devouring me. I squirm under it and glance back out the window.
“Why are we here?”
Panic flashes over his features before he quickly masks it away. “We’re vacationing.”
My brow raises on its own accord. I do know him. As much as my overactive mind would like to imagine he’s my captive, I know better. And furthermore, I can sense he’s lying to me.
“We’re not vacationing. Out with it, Damien,” I bite out and pin him with a firm glare.
He runs his fingers through his dark brown hair and huffs in frustration. “We come here when we need a break. It’s our therapy.”
This time, he’s telling me the truth. “Why do we need therapy? Are we not happy?”
His dark eyes lift to mine and he clenches his jaw. “Sometimes we need reminding.”
I wait for him to elaborate but he doesn’t respond. When he doesn’t, I set my coffee down and cross my arms over my chest. I wince at some bruising on my breasts.
“Was I in an accident?”
He chuckles. “No.”
I glare at him. “No wonder we had to come here for a time out. I was probably annoyed as shit at your lack of communication. Seriously, Damien. How in the hell am I supposed to remember who I am if you speak in riddles?”
“We were actually making fucking progress,” he says with a deep growl. “Things were looking up and then I fucked it all up.”
He doesn’t make any sense. Rage festers inside of me and begins to surge through me. “How? So help me, Damien. Out with it. All of it before I get up and leave. I’ll find someone who can tell me more.”
His eyes widen and he shakes his head in vehemence. “No, please don’t do that. For fuck’s sake. I’ll tell you everything, okay?”
I nod in a curt manner and press my lips together to keep from snapping at him anymore.
“We got into a fight. You told me you were sick of me and our marriage. That you were leaving me and had fucking divorce papers, love. I panicked.”
I frown at his words but wait for him to continue.
“I tried to bring our spark back. To remind you of the passion we seemed to have forgotten. At first,” he says with a slight smile that causes my core to ache, “you were into it. Kissing me and ripping at my hair like you couldn’t get enough of me. But then, as if you suddenly remembered, you turned cold on me. Told me it was over and there was no turning back.”
His eyes, the color of my coffee, meet mine and the pain is evident. He loves me with every part of his being. The idea warms me and I bask in it. I’m not sure what happened between us but if he loved me so much, surely we can find our way back to that. Surely I can remember. Surely I can look at him that way one day too.
“Things got physical, as do most things between us, and before you know it, I’m fucking you against the wall in the hallway in a desperate effort to get to our bed.”
The heat from his story burns through me and I shudder. “So we had hot sex? Hardly seems problematic.”
He chuckles and I swear it makes my panties wet. I’m embarrassed for some reason which is ridiculous considering he’s my husband and this is natural.
“Sarah, our sex has never been problematic. The aftermath usually is though,” he grins and his gaze drags over my breasts under my T-shirt. Bruises around my nipples seem to tingle and I understand that he knows they’re there. That he’s the one that put them there with his teeth and lips.
The idea only further dampens my panties.
“I lost my memory from sex?” I question with an astonished laugh.
He shakes his head. “Well, sort of. We crashed through our bedroom door to the wood floor. You hit your head pretty hard.”
I slide my fingers to the back of my head and touch it. It’s not tender. There’s no bruising. I don’t even have a headache. Something’s not adding up.
But I don’t see. What if he’s lying to me again? Could I really be a prisoner?
“I need to go to the restroom,” I squeak out.
He nods with furrowed brows and I feel the heat of his gaze on me as I rush to the open door next to the kitchen.
How did I know it was the bathroom? I guess I have been here before. Shit, this is all confusing.
Once I’m inside the bathroom, I shut the door and then find my way to the mirror. Long, black hair. Green eyes. Pouty lips. I’m pretty, I guess. Damien is hot. I suppose we make a good match.
So why was I divorcing him?
We clearly have chemistry. Our eyes never leave each other’s. His proximity seems to heat me in a sexual way whenever he’s near. I’ve barely talked to him but can feel it down to my bones that we have an intense history.
“Sarah,” he murmurs and comes to stand behind me. “I’m not lying to you. That’s how you hurt yourself. That’s why you can’t remember anything.”
I bite my lip and meet his gaze in the mirror. Out of a carnal reaction, I lean back against his hard chest. His heat envelops me and I feel safe. I love this man. I know that much.
“I wish I could remember. Maybe we should go to the doctor and find out why I can’t remember.”
His features darken and he severs our gaze. I gasp when his lips find the shell of my ear and kisses it. “Let me help you remember, love.”
I close my eyes as his large hands slip underneath my T-shirt and slide up to the globes of my breasts. His thumbs knowingly run over the bruises as if he remembers exactly where he placed them. I like his touch. I crave more of it.
“I know you love it when I do this.” The smug tone of his voice starts to irritate me until his hand travels down my bare belly and into my panties. “Jesus, so wet for me. Do you remember how good we were together?”
I moan when his finger expertly pushes between the lips of my pussy and massages my throbbing nub. He circles it in a practiced manner that brings me to orgasm within seconds. I cry out when intense pleasure surges through me. “Oh, God!”
I’ve barely come down when he’s shoving my panties down my thighs and urging me over the cabinet vanity. Like the whore I must have been, I let this stranger who claims to be my husband tear off my shirt and tug his cock from his jeans. I gasp when he kicks my ankles apart and enters me with force.
Our eyes meet again in the mirror and this time, his are nearly black with a lust-filled glare that has my heart thrumming out of my chest. He’s intense and fuck-hot. I love him, I know it.
“Damien, I love you,” I blurt out.
One of his hands slips around to my throat as he fucks me while the other finds my clit. “I know, beautiful.”
The sting of his words is long forgotten as another orgasm threatens to rip me in two. His grip on my neck tightens and it only serves to intensify my need to come.
“Look at me,” he grunts.
His command ripples through me and our eyes meet once again.
This feels familiar.
I latch onto his stare as if it has the ability to tether me to his world indefinitely. His world, I belong in. His world, is one I am queen.
“Don’t come until I say, Sarah.”
I frown because I know it will happen soon. Do people even have control over their orgasms? How do you even stop such a thing?
“I don’t know if I can stop it,” I confess, tears welling in my eyes.
Why do I feel like he’ll be angry if I fail? Why do I care?
His gaze softens but he pounds harder into me. “Try.”
And I do.
Closing my eyes, I grit my teeth and focus on anything but the pleasure. I think about him. Damien Hunt. My husband. What does he do for a living? How long have we been married? Where do we—
His snarled out command jerks me from my internal ponderings and I allow myself to get washed up in the pleasure he’s doling out. The intensity seems to surge through me like a thousand volts of electricity and I’m powerless to stop it even if I’d tried. My entire body shudders beneath his touch and I don’t come down from my high until I feel his come trickling down my thigh.
“I love you too, Sarah. Every single day. Please don’t ever forget that.” His plea is heartfelt and it makes my chest ache. It’s as if he’s said this same phrase a hundred times. The words are familiar and unlock something inside my head.
“You’ve said that before.”
His body stiffens and he quickly pulls out of me. He deliberately keeps his eyes downcast as he cleans himself with a towel.
“Damien? You’ve said that before haven’t you? A lot?”
I’m taken aback when his angry gaze meets mine. Hot tears fill his eyes but he doesn’t let them spill over. His jaw clenches as he holds in words he doesn’t want me to know.
“Tell me, goddammit!” I demand with a wobble to my voice. “I deserve to know.”
With a loud exhalation of breath, he spits out words that chill my soul.
“Sarah, my beautiful wife, I’ve said that phrase every day for two-hundred fifty seven days.”
But that means…
“How long have I been like this? How long have I been unable to remember?”
He shakes his head and storms out of the bathroom, calling out over his shoulder. “You have your answer.”
Two-hundred fifty seven.
Almost a year.
With shaky hands, I fumble to get my shirt back on and drag my panties back up my legs. I chase after him and find him with his forehead against the glass of the backdoor as he stares out.
“We have this discussion. Every day, baby. Every goddamned day and you never remember. The doctors claim it will come back one day. To be patient with you.”
Tears roll down over my cheeks and I slide my arms around his bare waist. Resting my cheek on his muscular back, I inhale his scent and it seems a part of who I am it’s that familiar. “When does it happen? When do I forget?”
“Every time you go to sleep, you wake back up clueless. That’s why we’ve stayed here in the cabin. I can keep you safe and watch over you.” His hands find mine over his stomach and he strokes the back of them.
“I’m starting to remember, I think,” I assure him. “Like, I knew I loved you. I knew you hurt me at first but then came to realize it was because you like it rough when we have sex. And I knew you said those words. See, I’m getting better.”
He remains quiet but his deep breathing and rapid heartbeat that I can feel through his back indicate a thousand thoughts running rampant through him.
“Damien, what if I leave a clue? I can write something down and then you can show it to me tomorrow. I promise, this can work.”
He turns in my arms and smiles at me. It’s fake and for my benefit. My husband doesn’t believe me. As if we’ve had this entire conversation over and over again. “Sure, beautiful. Let’s leave a message.”
With a wild determination, I peel myself from him and set to hunting down something to write with.
This time, I’ll remember.
I’ll make sure of it.
“I won’t forget,” I promise as I trace lazy circles on his chiseled chest. I’ll never tire of touching this man. Ever. I can’t believe I would have ever wanted to divorce him.
His placating tone irritates me but I don’t call him out. I instead, burn these memories into my brain. The masculine, clean scent that permeates the air around me after our hot shower. The way his smooth skin feels under my fingertips. The deep rumble of his voice. The way his body connects perfectly with mine.
“Do I easily give myself up to you every day within minutes of waking up?”
He chuckles and I bask in the warmth of it. “Every time.”
“I love you, Damien. I can feel it. That’s why. I may not remember it but I feel it.”
His fingers tangle in my hair and he kisses the top of my head. “I know, love.”
Suffocating heat drags me from my dreamless sleep and I attempt to sit up in the darkness. Something heavy prevents me from sitting up all the way and I freeze.
A man’s arm to be exact.
Did I get shitfaced last night? Is this a one-night stand gone too long?
I slide out from under him and slip off the bed. The moment my bare feet touch the chilled wood floor, I sigh in relief. A cold draft of air cools my skin and I shakily hunt for my clothing in the dark.
Sneaking into the bathroom, I flip on the light and look for anything to cover up with. I find a discarded T-shirt on the floor and quickly throw it on. The mad dash to the door is short lived the moment I make it to the window and see the white blanket of snow covering everything around the cabin. With a sigh, I make my way into the kitchen and flip on the light.
My gaze falls to a notebook on the counter. Curiosity gets the best of me and I pick it up. Turning to the first page, I recognize my writing. Each page, a desperate plea for me to remember. A plea to remember my identity. My husband. My life. All signed by me. Sarah Hunt.
Dread consumes me and I heave the notebook away from me.
“No,” I hiss. “This is a bad dream. Wake up, Sarah!”
I’m stumbling back toward the door again. Maybe a mad dash through the snow away from this cabin will wake me up from this nightmare. This has to be a nightmare.
I’ve just turned the knob when two hot, strong arms grab me from behind.
“Shhh, it’s me, Damien.”
K Webster is the author of dozens of romance books in many different genres including contemporary romance, historical romance, paranormal romance, and erotic romance. When not spending time with her husband of twelve years and two adorable children, she's active on social media connecting with her readers.
Her other passions besides writing include reading and graphic design. K can always be found in front of her computer chasing her next idea and taking action. She looks forward to the day when she will see one of her titles on the big screen.
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