Page 64 of Hush, Little Baby

He has headphones on. The sleek, expensive kind that sit over his ears and block out everything. His eyes are fixed on his phone screen, and his expression is the same flat, disinterested mask it always is, and he might as well be on a different plane entirely.

I still can’t breathe.

Nikolaus’s thumb traces a slow arc just below my hip bone, and I realize with a full-body flush of horror that he can probably feel my heart hammering through my stomach.

“He can’t hear us,” Nikolaus murmurs, so low I almost miss it under the drone of the engines. His fingers stay still in my mouth, a gentle anchor. “The headphones are noise-canceling. He’s not listening.”

I know that’s supposed to make this better, but I’m really not sure it does.

“But you should still try to be quiet for me,” he adds, softer still, lips barely moving. “Just in case. Can you do that?”

I stare at the ceiling of the plane because I cannot look at his face right now. The cream-colored panels above us are very smooth, very clean, and utterly unhelpful.

His hand slides lower.

My breath snags on his fingers, and I make a small, involuntary sound against them that I immediately try to swallow back down. My free hand grabs a fistful of his shirt, not pushing him away, just—holding. Holding something. Holding on.

“There we go,” Nikolaus breathes, like he’s found something he was looking for. “I just want you to feel good, sweetheart. You were hurting. You did so well through that, and I want you to feel good now. That’s all this is.”

That’s all this is.

I should laugh. I should say something cutting and adult, except his hand is on me through my sweatpants and his fingers are in my mouth, and the floaty place has once again swallowed the part of me that knows how to do any of those things.

So instead I just lie there and let him.

His palm presses against me, and the sound I make is so small and embarrassing that I want to dissolve into the leather seat and never be found. My hips make a tiny, treacherous movement I didn’t authorize, and Nikolaus exhales above me like I’ve given him something precious.

“Good boy,” he breathes, barely audible. “That’s it. Just let me.”

I squeeze my eyes shut again and grip his shirt tighter.

The thing is, it feels good.

I hate that it feels good. I hate that my body doesn’t seem to understand the difference between someone who is keeping me and someone who is taking care of me, or maybe it understands and simply doesn’t care, which is worse. Every slow press of his hand sends warmth spreading up through my stomach, and I suck harder on his fingers without meaning to, which makes Nikolaus’s eyes heat.

I check on Constantine again, but he hasn’t moved. He looks focused on whatever it is he’s looking at on his phone.

His hand moves again, pressing firmer, and the warmth that had been spreading through me becomes urgent. My hips make another little, aborted motion, and I bite down gently on his fingers to keep from making noise, which only makes him exhale slowly above me like I’ve done something exactly right.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, barely a breath. “Let Daddy rub your special place. So good. You’re doing so well for me, sweetheart. So quiet. Such a good boy.”

The praise lands in the floaty place and blooms there, warm and stupid and chemical, and my fingers twist tighter in his shirt as the pressure builds.

Then his hand stills, and I make a soft, confused sound around his fingers.

But I don’t have long to mourn, because he reaches up, into the breast pocket of his suit jacket, and draws out a square of cloth. I think it’s a handkerchief, but it’s not the kind of old man handkerchief my granddad had—it’s silk, deep blue, crisp with starch, the kind of uselessly nice thing that people like Nikolaus probably carry to show off that they can.

He lays it in his palm, then slides his hand back down, this time not stopping at the waistband of my sweats. He presses with two fingers at my taint, and I jerk, unable to help it. Another helpless noise escapes me, and I suck desperately on his other hand to muffle it. My mouth fills with the taste of his skin and a faint ghost of cologne, and it’s so distracting, so embarrassing, so completely overwhelming that I almost miss the next thing.

Nikolaus’s voice drops so low it’s just for me. “I know it’s a lot, sweetheart. I know you’re scared. But you’re doing so, so good.” He rubs me, just a little, as if he’s testing the shape of me through the fabric, mapping my body for some secret plan. “Let Daddy take care of you,” he whispers, and then he’s not massaging anymore, he’s actually stroking me through the thin barrier of my sweats, and I can’t get away, can’t breathe, can’t think.

I should be screaming.

I should be shoving him off.

But all I can do is whimper and bite his fingers and try not to let any of the noises rise above the hum of the plane.

His eyes are on mine the entire time, and I know, I know, I know what this is—he’s making me complicit, and I am letting him.