The only thing Mina could determine as a real sensation as she slipped in and out of consciousness were the hands fumbling on her buttons, trying to reach through to her peachy flesh. She could hear murmured mumbling which flickered between reality and the intoxicated limbo she was in but the only proper connection she had with what was happening was feeling the cold and clinical touch on her body.
The clawing stopped momentarily before the awkward indignity became harsher – calculated grazing turned into aggressive and impatient grasping. The grasping became more sporadic and then suddenly stopped. She roused long enough to see Wilson’s face above her until her vision was blurred by a downpour. A very cold one.
She bolted upright before she was fully awake, wiping the water from her eyes with the back of her hand. She looked around and found herself in a room that she felt a vague familiarity with.
Brief flashes of memory hit her. A drink handed to her, by a featureless fa