Breaking Him

“You’re a beast,” I panted, and it wasn’t an insult.

He pinned my wrists above my head, staring solemnly down at me.

A million things were pouring out of his ocean eyes at me.

I didn’t even have to say it aloud.  We stared at each other and thought the words, a silent conversation with nothing but our starving, devouring eyes.

It doesn’t matter what’s happened tonight.  It doesn’t matter that we mourned together, and made ourselves and each other feel better for one bittersweet night.

I can’t forgive you.  I can’t and won’t trust you again.  You betrayed me and it can never be made right again.

Also, I can’t forgive myself.  The things I did to hurt you, to survive after you left, and of course, the things I did to take revenge for the things you did, have damaged me beyond all repair.

But we didn’t say one word out loud.  Finally he bent down and kissed me, and it was so soft and so tender as to be devoid of passion.

It held something else, something even more dangerous.  A thing I was afraid to even think.

He pulled back with a gasp and started panting like he’d been underwater.

After that, he let me sleep.

CHAPTER THIRTY

“If two wrongs don't make a right, try three.”

~Laurence J. Peter

I woke up to a steady knocking on my bedroom door.

I cast one bleary-eyed look at Dante, who appeared so deeply asleep as to be unconscious.

“What?” I called out, and even then he didn’t twitch.  He’d always been a sound sleeper.

He slept like a guiltless baby, the bastard.

No answer.  Just more knocking, and still more, going and going in a precise, continuous rap.  Not hard, not soft, not fast, not slow, just steady and determined.

Whoever it was seemed to have no intention of leaving until I answered that door.

But the thing was, I really didn’t want to.  There was a limited number of people it could be, and not one of them I wanted to see this early.  Or ever.

I wasn’t even dwelling on what they’d discover when I opened that door.  It was bad enough that I knew what I’d succumbed to in the dark, lonely hours of the night.  I certainly wasn’t thrilled with the notion of anyone else discovering it, but there was no way we could hide it.

First of all, we were both naked.  Dante didn’t even have a sheet to cover him.  He was sprawled out on his back,  exposed to the air, sleeping the sleep of someone utterly capable of trust, which was ironic since he’d been the one to rob me of mine.  The Bastard.

Second, the room reeked of sex.  I reeked of sex.  I’d lost count of the things we’d done over and through the long hours of the night, and the evidence was everywhere, most particularly inside of and all over my well-used body.

Third, the room looked like it’d been ransacked.  The bedspread was over by the window for some reason I couldn’t remember, every knickknack on my dresser had been knocked over or off, and Dante’s pants were literally directly in front of the door, like he’d left them there to send a message.

I wondered idly if he’d had the possessive foresight to leave a sock on the doorknob.

I glanced around, trying to decide what there was to be done about it, and also, where the clothes I’d gone to bed in had ended up.  All I could see were his clothes, and they seemed to be everywhere, making it impossible to miss that there was a naked man in my bed even if I’d gotten rid of the naked man himself.

“Open the door, Scarlett,” a soft female voice that I’d recognize anywhere called.

My entire sated body stiffened.

Well, hell.  I wasn’t going to hide this from her, of all people.  In fact, if I ever had to set eyes on her again, this was the demoralizing setup I’d have chosen.

I stood, negligently wrapping a sheet around the essentials, but not bothering to cover too much.  Let her see what he’d picked over her last night.  Let her see what she could never compete with.  Just as her rail thin body always brought out my worst insecurities, I knew my over the top curves made her feel just as inadequate.

How could a man desire two women of polar opposite looks? I’d often wondered.  And worse, which type does he prefer?

Though some part of me, my gut I guess, always knew that it was me.

He was a slave to this body, helpless against every curve and hollow of it.  If there was one thing I was certain of about him, it was that.

I swung the door open wide as I answered, hiding nothing.  Well, nothing in the room.  On my face was pure stoicism.

On my face I hid everything.

My hate.  My contempt.

My jealousy.  My fear.

“Good morning, Tiffany,” I said, deadpan.

And since Dante was sleeping and not dead, finally something jarred him out of his enviably peaceful slumber.

With a jerk he sat up.  I watched his body flex with the movement, gaze darting from that drool worthy sight up to the dawning horror on his face.

I couldn’t decide which thing I liked looking at more.

“What the fuck, Tiffany?” he snarled, the horror turning to something darker, something I liked even more if for different reasons.

As he began to scramble to find something to cover himself with, I turned back to the bane of my existence.

I saw her face when she noticed his back.

I saw her go pale as she took in every scratch I’d left on him.

She shot one hostile glance my way.

I feigned a cringe.  “Ouch.  Those looks like they hurt,” I said with a mock sympathetic pout.