I’m going to remind her of our connection and how truly special it is. I’m going to remind her that my touch is the only touch she craves and that forgiving me is her only option. I’m sick to my stomach at not having her touch, and even if all she does is slap me, I’ll take it.
I’ll take even the smallest scrap of her attention. I’m just that desperate.
Chapter 22
Tessa
“Oh, God.” This has to be the best dream ever. I’m back in Sean’s bed, his head between my legs, his tongue stretching my tight opening, his beard scratching the inside of my thighs. His mouth makes love to me as his fingers force me to climax.
Everything else seems to just wash way. It’s just him and me, still in our perfect weekend.
“Cum for me, little fox. I need you,” he murmurs against my body before licking into my pussy with deep wet strokes. He goes back to my clit, dragging it into his mouth and sucking. Slipping two fingers inside me, he searches for my G-spot and sends me over the edge. My body coils and then succumbs as I call out his name, and the orgasm takes me.
I try to clamp my legs closed, but Sean buries his face deeper into the folds of my sex, making sure to get every drop of my orgasm. In my dream he’s soaking it all up and loving me with every inch of his mouth.
Too quickly the heat is gone and it makes my eyes open lazily. That’s when I remember.
Betrayal.
Death.
He used me to get into the bank, then he killed a man right in front of me.
It all comes crashing down on me. I stare at him as he sits in a chair in the corner of the room. He gazes back at me, licking his lips from the orgasm he just gave me. That was no dream. It was him. I roll over to face the other way. I don’t want to have my eyes on him.
I hate the way I feel about it. I feel like it’s ripping me in two. Part of me loves him, and part of me is so angry at him I can’t speak. I hate the part of me that loves him, but it’s still there.
Love isn’t just a switch you can flip on and off. I’ve learned that over the past few days. I loved him before I understood what was really happening, and that love doesn’t seem to be fading with this new knowledge. I’m not sure who I’m madder at, myself or him.
“You have to eat, baby.” I ignore him. It’s what I’ve been doing since I got here. I don’t want to talk to him because my ability to resist him isn’t so great. The only wall I can seem to keep up is silence. It wouldn’t take much to crack, even knowing the things I know. Does that make me pathetic? Knowing he used me for all of this, yet I still want him? He has blood on the very hands that have held me close at night. The hands that captured my face as he rained kisses all over me.
“You can’t go on not eating,” he tries again. He’s been on this eating thing since yesterday. To be honest I hadn’t even realized I hadn’t eaten. I think with all the crying, I just didn’t feel up to it. Nor was I hungry.
Now I am, but seeing how much it bothers him that I’m not eating, I’m doing it on purpose. It’s spiteful and immature, but I can’t find the energy to care. It might be childish, but I like seeing the misery on his face. I want him to be as miserable as I am. He did this to us. He ripped us apart and shattered everything. I should’ve known he was too good to be true.
He has taken everything from me: my life, my job, what few friends I had, and the man I thought I loved. He made me fall in love with him so he could use me. Then took me from the only home I’ve ever known.
I hear him move, coming to the other side of the bed so I’m once again looking at him. He drops to his knees next to the bed.
“If you don’t eat, you're going to get sick.” He pauses for a second, running his hands through his messy hair. I have the urge to reach out and fix it, but I clench my hand into a fist so that I don’t. “This is killing me, baby. I love you. Just…”
I don’t want to hear what he has to say. The walls I have up are already shaking just looking at him. The miserable look on his face is killing me. I hate it, but I can't seem to bring myself to swipe it away for him.
“If you stop talking, I’ll eat.” His jaw clenches, but he nods his head as he stands and leaves the room.
He comes back moments later with a tray in hand. It must have been sitting right outside the door. The sight of the pancakes and bacon makes my stomach growl loudly. Sean scowls at the sound, like my being hungry is making him angry.
“It’s your fault I haven’t eaten. If I was home, I bet I would have eaten by now,” I say defensively. That’s probably not true. I’d most likely be in bed, curled up and crying about Sean not being who I thought he was.
What’s just as scary is when I think about what would have happened if he’d left me behind. I’d never see him again. That thought seems more painful than this.
I sit up and let him place the tray over my lap. He goes back to his chair in the corner to sit in silence like I asked. I want to snap at him to leave, but then he probably would. I like when he’s close, even if I want to smack him.
When the first bite of fluffy pancake and sweet syrup hits my lips, I moan. I look up in time to see Sean adjusting himself in his chair. His erection is clear as day, even from across the room. He licks his lips, and I wonder if he’s thinking about my food, or still tasting me on his lips from earlier.
I get halfway through my food when the silence becomes too much.
“Why am I here?” I finally ask. Maybe if I ask the questions, I can control the conversation.
