my moan because I knew he was serious. He'd bite and lick and abuse me for hours, until I begged and screamed and pleaded for him to stop. He liked it most when I begged and screamed. He always did. But the worst thing of all was that I liked it, too. A lot. Too much.
“Did you make coffee?” I asked even though I could smell the heavenly scent of it already in the air. I could only think of trying to divert attention away from what he was trying to do. He was trying to get me to beg to be bent over and fucked, but I didn't have time. It sounded so odd to ask him that, but so domesticated. In hindsight, I miss those moments the most. I miss the sex, of course, with every bone in my body. But the companionship, too. The waking up together and eating meals together and the fact that he would wake up while I was in the shower and make coffee for me in the morning. I didn't even ask him to; he surprised me with it one morning and then it became something I expected, even though I tried to pretend that I didn't expect it.
That tiny sliver of predictability was so addicting. I wanted more of it. I wanted normality, although I didn't know how that would ever be possible. But until then, I was just going to have to pretend that nothing was amiss, pretend that everything wasn't on the verge of falling apart. I could do that. I had gotten so good at pretending.
“No,” he lied and I smiled to myself. He let me go, finally, and I made my escape. I went down to finish getting ready. He pulled on one of the pairs of jeans I'd purchased for him and sauntered down to the kitchen when he was good and ready. He didn't bother buttoning them, and the dark hair that trailed out his waistband to his bellybutton was distracting, to say the least. I wanted to kiss him everywhere, all over his broad back and his muscular chest and his stubbled cheeks. But I didn't. I slid on my heels and smoothed my skirt and glanced at myself in the mirror by the door. I looked alright, albeit a bit flushed in the face. I spot-checked quickly, looking for any visible bruises. When I was satisfied that everything was covered, I turned to find him holding out my stainless steel travel mug for me. I stared down at it, a laugh bubbling up in my throat. It was a small thing for him to do, laughably mundane, but it still made me happy. Happier than it should.
I slid my fingers around the mug but he wouldn't give it to me. Instead he pulled me close and forced me to kiss him until he was satisfied. He grabbed my ass and forced me against him and I whimpered in protest as his stubble tickled and scratched my face. He didn't care. He wanted all he could get out of me before I had to go. I wondered what he did alone all day. I hoped he had a good way to keep himself busy. I knew he was getting stir-crazy. I knew he was starting to get destructive again. He was getting more violent and possessive. But I didn't know what to do about it. I just kept putting it off until another time, thinking that I would take care of it later. I was hoping it would resolve itself, somehow.
My first mistake.
When he finally let me go, I slapped at his chest and grabbed the coffee and ran out before I rethought it. My job suddenly didn't seem anywhere near as important as staying with him. His presence was so addicting. I told myself it was mostly lust but, at times like these, it was more powerful than any other feeling I'd ever felt. Knowing what I know now, I would've stayed. I would've quit my job and done anything to stay with him. He was worth the sacrifice of having to rearrange my life. At the time, I told myself I was trying to figure it out. I was trying to plan it out and do it the right way. But we were running out of time. I could feel it slipping through my fingers. I'd just forgotten how quickly things could change. They could change in an instant.
He stood in the door of the garage as I got in my car. I purposefully didn't look at him until the garage door was rolling
“Did you make coffee?” I asked even though I could smell the heavenly scent of it already in the air. I could only think of trying to divert attention away from what he was trying to do. He was trying to get me to beg to be bent over and fucked, but I didn't have time. It sounded so odd to ask him that, but so domesticated. In hindsight, I miss those moments the most. I miss the sex, of course, with every bone in my body. But the companionship, too. The waking up together and eating meals together and the fact that he would wake up while I was in the shower and make coffee for me in the morning. I didn't even ask him to; he surprised me with it one morning and then it became something I expected, even though I tried to pretend that I didn't expect it.
That tiny sliver of predictability was so addicting. I wanted more of it. I wanted normality, although I didn't know how that would ever be possible. But until then, I was just going to have to pretend that nothing was amiss, pretend that everything wasn't on the verge of falling apart. I could do that. I had gotten so good at pretending.
“No,” he lied and I smiled to myself. He let me go, finally, and I made my escape. I went down to finish getting ready. He pulled on one of the pairs of jeans I'd purchased for him and sauntered down to the kitchen when he was good and ready. He didn't bother buttoning them, and the dark hair that trailed out his waistband to his bellybutton was distracting, to say the least. I wanted to kiss him everywhere, all over his broad back and his muscular chest and his stubbled cheeks. But I didn't. I slid on my heels and smoothed my skirt and glanced at myself in the mirror by the door. I looked alright, albeit a bit flushed in the face. I spot-checked quickly, looking for any visible bruises. When I was satisfied that everything was covered, I turned to find him holding out my stainless steel travel mug for me. I stared down at it, a laugh bubbling up in my throat. It was a small thing for him to do, laughably mundane, but it still made me happy. Happier than it should.
I slid my fingers around the mug but he wouldn't give it to me. Instead he pulled me close and forced me to kiss him until he was satisfied. He grabbed my ass and forced me against him and I whimpered in protest as his stubble tickled and scratched my face. He didn't care. He wanted all he could get out of me before I had to go. I wondered what he did alone all day. I hoped he had a good way to keep himself busy. I knew he was getting stir-crazy. I knew he was starting to get destructive again. He was getting more violent and possessive. But I didn't know what to do about it. I just kept putting it off until another time, thinking that I would take care of it later. I was hoping it would resolve itself, somehow.
My first mistake.
When he finally let me go, I slapped at his chest and grabbed the coffee and ran out before I rethought it. My job suddenly didn't seem anywhere near as important as staying with him. His presence was so addicting. I told myself it was mostly lust but, at times like these, it was more powerful than any other feeling I'd ever felt. Knowing what I know now, I would've stayed. I would've quit my job and done anything to stay with him. He was worth the sacrifice of having to rearrange my life. At the time, I told myself I was trying to figure it out. I was trying to plan it out and do it the right way. But we were running out of time. I could feel it slipping through my fingers. I'd just forgotten how quickly things could change. They could change in an instant.
He stood in the door of the garage as I got in my car. I purposefully didn't look at him until the garage door was rolling
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