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Present
Lo
I should have known.
After Francis died, when I had Tobe drive me all through the night to see Jason and be there for Ellie, I should’ve known.
The proverbial fan hit the wall. It screamed, wretched at me in full view, odious in its fervor. Yet I made excuses. I made these false reasons as to why they’d grown close. But that night should have given me every reason to not trust Ellie, to not trust either of them. I should have asked Jason if he would try and make the line of their friendship more present, more defined or to pick me instead. Pick me. Pick me. Pick me.
As I think of that night, I remember the way her eyes were soft for him, the way her hands touched him in a way only I’d done. Softly. Lovingly. Adoringly.
It was there all along.
And I let her into my home, my life, and confided in her. I kept her around, damning my own marriage in the process.
She probably thought what a stupid bitch with every complaint and worry I’d told her. In reality, that’s what I am. Stupid. In my mind, I had to have known.
But you don’t get to pick how your mind works.
You don’t get to choose how you cope.
How you mourn or don’t.
How it affects you or not.
It takes its own course, and you can only stand and exist in the moment.
Still, with that in mind, how could I not see this? How could I not see the void in Jase’s heart or how he filled Ellie with the love he always promised to me?
Give her a fucking child! When I didn’t even get to keep mine!
As I drive to my home, the one I’ve shared with my husband for the last fourteen years, the one where memories cascade it in heaping realization of a dead love, the place that’s just as much as a prison as my resonant pain is, I feel anger consume me.
I romanticize my pain, falling in love with it, giving it control, allowing myself to endure lash after lash after lash of pure torment.
In the end, I sexualized my contrition, taking it to bed with me every night, making it my one true bedfellow, acquiescing the burrow of its brutality inside me.
Contentedness and I had a good relationship until I broke up with her, abandoning her along with everything light. She left me in the dark, evading my every apology, my every plea.
I’ve lost the trust I had in me for happiness, for love, for him, for them, for us, my hope drained along with it. The goodness that once inspired me—that I gave to others—is a dry well of nothingness now. I’m done being the good girl, the light, the sufferer. No more.
For the longest time, this anger was nonexistent. It didn’t come to me like it should. Now that it’s here, I bathe in it like it’s the fountain of youth, and I’m about to die a lonely bitter death. Each furious cirrus that wraps itself around my bleak, beating organ makes my hostility grow. Now is the time. The time to walk away, to give myself a chance to thrive without the burden of a man who decided loving me wasn’t enough.
Sometimes, love isn’t enough.
Not enough to keep going.
Not enough to wake up in the morning.
Not enough to forgive.
To stay.
To be a father.
To be a husband.
To be loyal.
Our love turned insidious along the way; the deception subtly rotted away something that was once beautiful. Our ruined love left us with sparse ashes of a once-blooming garden of intimate moments that never could have prospered.
Losing faith is worse than losing trust.
At least with trust, you can eventually gain it back with the faith and hope you carry, but once that’s gone, what’s left?
Nothing but resentment. That’s what he’s left me with.
When my driveway comes into view, my heart sinks. How could Jason have decided to fuck Ellie?
My abhorrence for my best friend makes me park crooked. I rush through my doors on a mission, and once I’m inside, everything in my path is destroyed by lies. It’s perfect, but behind the façade, it’s devastation covered with pretty makeup. My gaze scans the walls of all the smiles there. Lies. They wander over all the love shown. Lies. They pierce through each moment frozen in time. All lies. The marriage photos. More lies. More broken promises. They catch a photo, one of when I found out I was carrying Lilac, and the pain seizes my soul. I’m knocked to my knees.
You were too perfect for this world, baby girl. This time, though, I don’t let the tears fall. She would want me to be strong for Ace and Jazzy. And for them, I will be.
Slowly, I rise to my feet again, not allowing sadness to influence my mission. I grip the frames of me and Jason, every single one, every beautiful memory, every kiss, every whisper of love, and every fucking smile. I tear them off my walls as if they’re the betrayers. Because of him they’re tarnished—soiled beyond belief.
When my arms are full of our love, full of what made us us, I throw them off the top of the stairs. I chuck them, abandoning them like the love he forsakened. I scream with each crash, visibly observing our brokenness, the destruction that’s now our life. Each one makes a loud smash when it connects with the linoleum, and the sound makes me as overcome with grief as it eases a desolate part of me.
With each wrecked photograph, a weight eases off my chest, unburdening my soul. After every happy photo is on the floor beneath me, a chaotic mess just like my heart, I head to my baby boy’s room. Ace, my warrior, my protector and little man. He’s never doubted my dedication. No matter how lost I got, he never gave up. He was here when his own father wasn’t. I never imagined my little boy to grow into a man right in front of me, one who will be an amazing husband one day and an amazing father. Though he’s young, he’s mature beyond his years, and I’m so very proud of him.
Opening his door, I try to blink back the tears stinging my eyes. I wish he was here. How could someone so young take care of his mom when she couldn’t even take care of herself? The droplets drip down my face, falling into my mouth, down my chin, some landing on his floor.
His room is similar to many boys. Its walls are navy blue and white-trimmed. There’s a huge SD on the wall, the Padres logo. They’re his favorite baseball team.
Before all of this happened, he dreamed of becoming a professional player. He did little league then went out for the junior team. But now, he’s headed to tenth grade next year, and he’s lost the thrive he once had.
It’s my fault. It’s all my fault.
I’m not sure if he still wants to become a baseball player, not that he tells me anything anymore. I no longer know Ace’s dreams or desires for his future. I’ve failed him as a mother.
No longer do I have that connection with him, no matter how he rarely leaves my side. I haven’t asked him, not sure he would tell me if I did. He seems to keep his goals to himself. My heart breaks more in this room. The crippling feeling of defeat wafts in the air like a pungent incense. I’ll make it up to him, to Jaz. I’ll be a better mother.
Walking past his bed, I make it over to his closet. His room is too clean for a teenager, smells too pleasant for an athlete, and too vacant for a kid. Empty, like me.
When the doors are open to the closet, his Louisville slugger stuffed in the corner greets me like a text message. Perfect.
As I grip the royal blue and silver bat, my lungs seize a moment before breathing in the metallic scent of it. The cold feeling in my palm excites me, filling me with ease and intention. Purpose flows through me as a small smile tilts my lips.
Side-stepping the doors, I pivot to our bedroom. Inside, there’s a shrine of our life. After college, or rather, after Ace was born, I created this huge scrapbook-type wall. It has pictures from when we were in high school, him at his last game where he kissed me in front of the entire school, and some from college.
The aching I swore to swallow resurfaces, and in turn, my hands grip the baseball bat, swinging it at the drywall. The first crash has me cringing, like when a car crash sound subjugates your entire system. The dead flowers from prom, the wedding ones, the others that he’d given me when he apologized for being an asshole stare at me too, flopped over as if they, too, know and feel the death in this room.
My mind travels back to that night, the one where I waved Tobe off and headed up to my boyfriend’s dorm.
My feet barely move. It's like they know how to, but they’re in agreement with my heart, and don’t want to make the trip to be disappointed again. Staring at the office-like carpeted floor of the lobby, I decide to take the stairs rather than the elevator. Each slap of my soles on the cement stairs echoes through my ears. It’s like a pendulum, clacking back and forth, reminding me how mundane life is without meaning.
This baby will give me new meaning, a new purpose. I’ll finally learn how to live for someone other than myself. Rather than the feeling of being overwhelmed, it’s absolute love and motivation to be the best me.
I finally hit the fifth floor. It’s like my dorm except their colors are emerald and pewter while mine are a soft blue and pearl. The doors have white boards like ours. Names and dirty jokes, along with drawn-on penises are displayed.
When I find five-eleven, his room, I don’t knock. Instead, I walk right in. His roommate Derrick never locks the door, Jase always complains about it.
The small room is dark, but my eyes immediately find my boyfriend, and cuddled to his side is my best friend. Her leg is wrapped around his thighs, holding him like I should be.
They’re asleep.
Together.
Everything in me boils. It rushes me all at once, but rationality usually wins, and right now, it begs me to see reason. I’ve cuddled Toby, maybe not exactly like this but also like this no less. Fuck!
My heart beats extremely fast, so much so I’m sweating. It’s ringing in my ears. It’s hitting my ribcage, and I’m sure if I don’t calm it down, I’ll be the youngest person I know to have a heart attack. I can’t breathe. I’m suffocating. I know it.
My chest aches. The air inside me whooshes out. Dizziness starts to settle in, and I run out the door, slamming it closed. The sound is loud and barraging. My ears ring more, and I reach the garbage can near the elevator, hurling up my chocolate milkshake and fries.
My body lurches with each gag, and my throat feels like it’s been scrubbed with a Brillo Pad. He’s not cheating.
He wouldn’t do that.
He loves me, I think with confidence
He loves me, I reassure with uncertainty.
He loves... me... right? I question, no longer knowing the answer.
After the third round, my stomach bottoms out, and I wipe my mouth with my sleeve. Then, I’m falling to my ass, unsure of why I thought long distance would work, that we’d work.
Why I ever thought love was realistic.
Why I even imagined he would be a good guy.
Three years.
No. I can’t let him go.
“Peaches?” his sleep husky voice questions and has me crying hard in the next breath. “What’s wrong? What are you doing here?”
It’s a question, not accusing, but also not happy like he’s missed me as much as I’ve missed him.
“Go back to her,” I spit venomously, not turning to peer at him.
“What are you talking about, baby?”
Baby? Oh, please. A cramp locks up my stomach, and a chill rolls down my spine, whipping me like I’ve committed a crime. I hurry to stand, nearly slipping, before his arms catch me.
“Talk to me,” he pleads, helping me to the garbage can, holding my hair out of the way.
I hurl again and again, my legs wobbling. If not for him, I’d be in the fetal position. My throat hates me. My baby must be as upset as me, my heart posting an “evacuate” sign.
“Go away,” I groan halfheartedly, begging he doesn’t, praying he stays with me. Chooses me. Loves me.
“No,” he growls right back.
I put a little effort, shrugging off his hands. I still haven’t seen him yet, still haven’t allowed myself to inhale his masculine scent that infiltrates my system whenever he’s near, the one that promises so much but gives so little. If I do, if I give into him, I’ll pretend I never witnessed my best friend curled into his embrace.
He doesn’t get to hurt me like that.
I’m such a fucking hypocrite.
“I can’t do this anymore, Jason. Just go back to her. It makes sense now. Everything does.”
“I don’t know what you think you saw, Peaches, but I did nothing. We were studying. Derrick too. I must’ve passed out. I didn’t fall asleep with her. I swear.”
Doubt drowns me. Insecurity takes me as prisoner. Dread sips tea with Satan, discussing me as if I’m not there.
Turning around, I wipe my mouth, grimacing about my jacket smelling like a shitty bar bathroom. My eyes meet his blue ones. They’re red-rimmed with worry. His entire face speaks volumes. He’s generally not an emotional man.
“Go away,” I croak, my voice barely a whisper, barely holding on. “Leave me.”
“Never,” he says with finality, gripping my shoulders.
When he hauls me to his chest, I let it all out—the barren feeling he’s left me with, the anger, the resentment of all these years apart, everything.
“I hate you,” I cry, hitting his chest, feeling this deep seeded doubt I never had before. It’s rooted itself in me. It’s there, even when it’s not. “I hate you.”
This bat is hitting everything I once found dear to me and reminds me of that seed, the one that lodged itself in my heart like a potting plant, waiting for the right time to bloom. The roots dug deep into my heart, and now, the sprouts are fully blossomed.
Were they fucking our entire relationship? Was I just an obligation to him?
I roar, hitting the lamp, hearing it clank along with the bulb shattering. My hand grips the metal tighter as I swing it over my jewelry case, my mirrors, and the frames on the walls. The last blow hits a two-by-four in the wall, which sends the force back into my wrists and arms. My fingers lose their grip and a throbbing snakes its way up my body.
“Fuck!” I screech, shaking my achy limbs out, feeling every bite of pain. “I hate you!”
Instead of picking the bat back up, I stride to our dresser, taking out all of his clothes, throwing them everywhere, wanting to light the entire house full of memories on fire. Then, I march to our walk-in closet, where all his nicest and most expensive stuff is.
I’m not sure how long I’ve been destroying our home, but it’s just only starting to feel satisfying. The bed has drywall chunks all over it. There’s white dust everywhere like the entire room has been hit by tornado Loren, and I don’t even care.
My hands curl into the softness of his clothes as I fling the last bit of it, and that’s when I hear footsteps. Fuck. I never shut our door. Is there some stranger in here?
I tiptoe to the bed, picking up the bat, and then retreat back into the closet. The steps get closer, making my hackles rise. I raise the bat, ready to strike whoever has come inside. Click. Click. Click. Right when I swing, a smack resonates in the air.
“What the fuck, Loren!” Jason rounds the closet, the end of the ball bat in his palm.
When he releases it, I notice his palm is red, and again, I don’t even feel bad. He deserves to lose his balls for what he’s done to me. Him having the audacity to be a hypocrite for what I did with Toby brings bitterness to the surface, so much bitterness I can taste the coppery tinge of it.
“Get out!” I roar, slamming my shoulder into him while passing.
He grips my wrist, forcing me to face him. “Stop!” he demands, holding me hostage against his hard frame.
“I fucking hate you,” I spit, feeling it deep within me.
Not once in our marriage have I ever spewed such venom, but this time, I mean it. This time, it’s true.
“No, you don’t,” he quips with confidence, his signature dick smirk tilting at his lips.
That fucking smirk. It got me into his bed at sixteen, and it’s going to get me in trouble now.
“Fuck you,” I say as spitefully as I can.
Rearing back my palm, I slap him hard. The smack is deafening, and I smile triumphantly. The feeling of winning soaks into my skin, egging me on. His face, one of shock, has me laughing, cackling really. I’m losing it. I’ve lost my goddamn mind.
Jase takes me, lifting me up against the drywall that’s demolished.
“If you say so, Peaches,” he retorts before putting his mouth against mine.
At first, I thrash against him, slapping his chest in pent-up anger, but as soon as his palm—the one that’s held me in the hardest of nights, carried our children, and touched me in ways that no one else has—grips my throat in a calming gesture, I reciprocate.
My tongue battles with his, spearing against his cruelly, traveling all the resentment from my lips to his. His tongue strikes back, I bite it hard in resentment. Once the metallic taste of blood floods my senses, I only allow a moment’s guilt to soak through.
That same palm rubs up my throat, cupping my chin possessively. Can he taste his brother on my lips, in my mouth, and with every breath? I hope so. I hope he hates every goddamn moment.
Moaning, I attempt to knee him, the anger rising in me again. He stops me with his other hand, spreading my thighs apart, forcing his way between them. He sighs when his hand reaches my hip, and so do I.
We’ve always had a passionate love life, but right now, I’m as horny as I am deadly.
Pulling my mouth from his, I see the blood from the bite on the edges of his lips. Even so, my husband is such a beautiful man. The way his eyes always carry this knowledge that you want to be a part of and that mischief, the kind that makes you aware he’s trouble... Eyes that she’s seen from this close, lips she’s touched like I’m touching, hands that gripped her like he grips me, and a cock that wants inside me like its been inside her.
Before I can say another word, he silences me with his mouth, silencing the demons, silencing the bad thoughts that attempt to ruin me.
The voice is temporarily gone.
Ceaseless.
Voiceless.
Unsung.
For now.
He grinds into me, his hips smacking mine in a familiar melody, one I could play on repeat and know the exact tune, one I could recite word-for-word from memory, one I could never forget from the simple fact that it’s ours. He grips my face with both of his strong, large palms. Their warmth seeps into my skin, like they’re reuniting with a long-lost part.
My gaze meets his again, wanting to see the love—needing to see the love.
It’s like he sees the fire in my eyes, and instead of running from it, he wants to play with it. The heat in his gaze makes me want to whimper, to melt into him and never let go of this moment, but still, my heart isn’t there anymore. It left a long time ago.
I can fuck him right now and walk away tomorrow.
I’m that far gone.
He’s lost me.
And when I attempt to convey it with a look of pure malice, he sees it, too.
He turns us around, taking me to the bed, lifting my peach dress, the one Toby was just beneath.
“Peaches,” he growls like it’s the dirtiest word he’s ever spoken, like the word cunt and bitch don’t compare to the filthy word that’s my pet name.
His eyes scan me, probably trying to see every part of me that his brother has touched, trying to erase the memories that won’t ever go away.
Good.
Feel what I feel.
Bleed like I've bled.
Hurt like I've hurt.
His hands grip my dress, and when I look down, I see his pocket knife slicing the fabric, hear the whirr of it being torn. My heart pounds, my palms sweating along with my body from tension.
My expression must’ve shown shock because he smirks. “You’ve ruined this dress for me, Peaches. It’s tainted.”
I choke back a sob.
“Now, it’ll never be worn again.”
“That’s my favorite dress,” I whine, wishing my voice didn’t sound so small.
“Was mine, too, until that fucker touched it. He took something from me, and I plan to get it back. No matter what it takes.”
The barely abated anger hiding beneath that smirk has my breath hitching. After the fabric is completely gone, I’m practically naked.
“I’d ask for you to shower, but I’d rather fuck you like the whore you pretend to be.”
His words are like the slap I just gave him. My body rises up, and I push against him.
“It’s your fault! You’re such a fucking hypocrite!” I rush out.
My screams are loud. My heart hammers with the knowledge that the cops could show up at any time, yet it doesn’t stop me from pushing his chest, wanting his heart to hurt like mine. Just a fucking fraction of my pain would suffice.
“What about you?” he counters, his voice dripping with acid. “What about you fucking leaving me?”
“What are you talking about? I’ve been here. Through it all, I’ve fucking been here!” The heat that builds in my chest, flaring up my throat to my face, has me winded.
“No.” He shakes his head, acting as if my answer is absurd. “You left when you let the grief consume you. What about then, when our kids needed you and I was all they had? What about when I’d cry myself to sleep, and you just stared at the wall? Or all the times I begged for you to come back to me, begged for you to find it in your heart to love me? What about all of that?”
I attempt pushing him away at his stupid questions, unwilling to hear that it’s my fault. He chose to fuck her, to stick himself inside her, to get her fucking pregnant.
“How about how I buried our child alone, mourned her loss alone, fucking felt a piece of me die along with her all alone?” he demanded.
“What about you?” I challenge. “How I caught you holding her in college? Like she was your girlfriend and was the one carrying your child? Or how you’ve been fucking her for a year, and now, she is carrying your fucking child!”
My lungs heave along with my chest, and my throat aches with the exertion of yelling. She’s pregnant. She has his child in her. She has him forever now.
“Loren.” He attempts to pacify me. “Nothing happened in college,” he explains.
“I don’t believe you,” I react, hating him so much in this moment especially since he can’t deny she’s carrying his child. Why does she get a child when I didn’t get Lilac? Tears run freely down my cheeks, tears of loss, unfairness, and asperity.
He closes the gap between us, his shoes touching my toes. Why can’t I just run away from this fucked-up moment? Why do I still love him?
His hands cup my face. Days ago, I wished he would touch me with this sincerity. I would have begged for some semblance of love from him. Hell, I prayed to have his love back, and I don’t believe in God. Who could lose a child and still believe in the being that took her?
His thumb swipes away my tears, his warmness seeping into me. But I don’t want it. I need his anger, not his love. I need his resentment, not his softness. I need him to let me go, not force me to stay.
“Why did you stop Toby?” I asked, hoping for detachment.
Dropping his hands, he stares at me, confused. “Why wouldn’t I? He touched what’s mine.”
“Fair is fair,” I rebuke, glaring at him. “I have an entire year of fucking to make up for.”
His face morphs into several emotions but ends with indignation.
“I have a dick to get me pregnant, too. It’s only fair, Jason.”
His hands fists at his sides. Yes. Anger. Give me that instead. I’m done with wanting him to feel bad. I want him to realize what he’s lost.
“If you want to catch up on fucking—” His one hand goes to his pants then unzips them in the next breath. “—get on my cock and fuck me, Peaches.”
My face flames, and in the next moment, he’s pulling his large erection out. I lick my lips, and then my mind wanders. So has she. She’s had him, too.
“I’d rather not share. No one likes sloppy seconds,” I respond dryly.
With that, he steels his arms around my shoulders, throwing me on our bed. The drywall digs into my back while some of his clothes soften other areas. It’s a mixture of firm and lax and messy and clean. It’s us—fucked up, damaged and broken beyond recognition.
He places his knee between my thighs. “If I remember correctly, you were just fucking with my brother. No need to have the copy when I’m the fucking original, baby.”
I roll my eyes. “At least he’s loyal. His dick will be mine and only mine. I won’t have to worry about him whoring it out for last week’s leftovers,” I bite back, my face flaming with implications.
“This cock,” he corrects, gripping his erection in his strong hand, “is already yours.” He growls at me, his face red.
I love the color.
It’s my new favorite.
Hot like anger.
Spicy like hate-fucking.
Brutal and bright.
Tinged with emotive brashness and envy.
“Is it really, though?” I condescend.
“Yes,” he bites, gyrating into the messy sheets. “Always.”
“Seems like you rented it out. Not interested,” I reply, pushing his shoulders.
“Fuck,” he says as he forces me to slacken.
He places a kiss onto my throat, trailing down my body. His mouth touches my navel, licking my stomach, making me shiver. His tongue dips into my belly button and then swirls around my scars, my stripes, the ones that prove I’ve carried miracles into this world. His eyes are fierce with love and lust and fury. It’s a tantalizing mixture.
“Jason,” I purr, wishing I hadn’t.
His mouth makes its way to my groin, then the lips of my pussy. He kisses, trailing his tongue along the seam rather than dipping between. He’s teasing, and he knows it drives me insane. I wiggle below him, but he doesn’t allow his tongue to penetrate. He wants me to beg. He wants my compliance.
“You always hated being teased, Peaches.” His voice is husky and deep. He’s enjoying this.
“Fuck you,” I respond, throwing an arm over my face.
“Plan to.” He flicks my clit once.
My hips lift off the bed in response. Then, he’s thrusting his tongue inside of me, and I’m squirming. He knows my body like Toby doesn’t. He knows the rhythms I enjoy and the ones that aren’t as satisfying.
“How does it feel, knowing he’s been between my legs?” I poke the bear, wanting his aggression. If not, I might cry. My mind can’t stay focused on his mouth. “Do you taste him on your tongue? Taste what’s no longer yours? Everything you’ve lost?”
“Fuck!” he barks and bites my clit.
His tongue glides over it in apology, and then, he’s eating me out like he has to wipe the memory of Toby from me.
“Mine,” he claims, slicking his fingers then pumping them in me. I curl into him, my back bowing up as he hits my favorite place. “He’ll never be me!”
No, he never will. But I don’t say that. I just moan as he works me up with his fingers and his mouth.
“At least I can trust him, know he has my back. Know he’s never broken me,” I barely whisper.
The sensation of coming twists into my lower belly, and he hasn’t stopped sliding inside me. I cry out as the tingles work their way from my stomach up and my hips down.
I come swift and hard and unbearably so. Not even five seconds later, he’s moved my panties to the side, sinking his length in me. We moan together, me in completion, him in pleasure.
It’s that feeling of being reunited that has me angry again. Why can’t I walk away?
Bringing my hand up to him, I slap. Not as hard as earlier but just as miserably.
“Fuck! You’ve got to stop doing that!” he complains, rubbing his hand over the red flesh.
“Why her?”
I smack again and again, seeing the red and loving it, loving that he’s finally getting pain, finally feeling it, finally painted in the color that’s driving my anger. His hips thrust, and I groan alongside him, loving how he sinks into me, filling me up, almost too much.
With every slap, he growls and bites me then licks my wounds. He sucks hickeys on my chest, and I bite him back, but I don’t lick them better. I’m too upset. He makes my body hum as he curves and hits my g-spot.
But as the rush of an orgasm starts building, he pulls out, flipping us over. I settle above him, and he lifts me, spearing me with his cock.
“If it’s your cock, prove it,” he demands. “Fuck yourself on me. Own me.”
I start rising and falling in response. My palms use his solid chest as an anchor. I use his body to get myself off. I lean forward, rotating my hips the way I know will make me come. His hands grip my hips forcefully, and I stare at the tattoos on his chest.
The chest I’ve loved for as long as he let me.
The chest that’s cradled me and our children.
The chest that she’s touched, too.
As I bounce, his face starts to relax, like he’s going to release. When I know he’s about to explode, I lift off of him, gripping him with my hand, making sure he won’t come inside me. I won’t allow him to have me the way he wants, won’t allow him to hurt me anymore. I haven’t been on birth control in years, and though he hasn’t been fucking me, I don’t want to risk it when our marriage is over.
He grunts several more times before ribbons of his seed paint my hand and his stomach. As soon as the last spurt leaves him, he’s flipping me over, forcing himself between my legs.
“Don’t think I don’t realize when you didn’t let me finish inside you, Peaches.”
“I don’t care,” I say nonchalantly, as if I’m not affected by his words or his tongue between my folds, licking me, making my legs shake with anticipation. “I’m no longer yours to taint.”
His growls of disagreement vibrate over my clit. The shockwaves of the sound having me thrusting into his face.
“I'll always love you,” he promises, “and this pussy will always be mine, too, even if I have to fuck it back into remembering that fact.”
With that last admission, I'm coming, and the sensation tickling my entire frame has me mad with tears.
Not once in our relationship did I ever truly regret being with him. This time, though, that's all I feel as the high leaves me.
Regret.
Bitterness.
Weakness.
This was a mistake.
A choice, really, but a really fucking bad one.