He pulls me off his lap gently and sets me beside him. The space between us feels like a gaping wound.
“Tell me you don’t want this,” I whisper, looking at him with teary eyes.
He doesn’t say a word as he grabs the nape of my neck and pulls me in, kissing me hard, his mouth crashing into mine with a desperation that steals what little breath I have left. It feels like he’s trying to memorize me, like he’s trying to leave something behind with every pass of his lips.
Just as quickly, he tears himself away, stepping back andwalks to the other side of the room without looking at me, like touching me was amistake.
“You motherfucker,” I whisper, my fists clenched in my lap. “You seriously just?—?”
“Go to bed, Catalina.”
“Go to?—”
He’s already walking away before I get the chance to tear him in half.
And I’m still on the couch, trembling, soaked, and fucking furious.
catalina
. . .
He fucking stopped.
After everything—after I was soaking through my panties and riding his cock like I needed it to breathe, after he growled filth into my ear like he was going to fuck me until I forgot my name—he stopped.
Fucking pathetic.
He pulled away like I was a mistake and apologized like I was just another one-night stand he didn’t want. He walked the fuck off like he didn’t just tell me I was dripping for him. Like he didn’t kiss me like I was air he so desperately needed.
Fuck men.
I’m lying in bed, heart pounding and cheeks flushed, with the most ridiculous, humiliating memory of all time playing on a loop in my head like some slow-motion nightmare.
Carter’s voice still echoes in my skull.“You gonna come like this, Catalina?” Just from grinding on me? You gonna soak my lap like a needy little slut?”
I squeeze my thighs together under the sheets, my whole body still buzzing from how close I was.
My panties are ruined.
My pride? Vaporized.
He kissed me like he was starving, grabbed my ass like he owned it and whispered filthy nothings about how my smart mouth was going to get filled.
Then he left, leaving me there panting, trembling, and soaked, like I was just some wild little detour he couldn’t afford to take.
The ceiling blurs as tears burn at the corners of my eyes—not sad ones, angry ones. Red-hot betrayal boiling behind my ribs.
I grip the edge of the blanket so tightly that my knuckles turn a shade of white. Last night, he looked at me like I was his, and I fucking let him. I gave him everything—my body, my fucking vulnerability, my trust—and he threw it all away the second it got too real.
He said it couldn’t happen. Likehegets to fucking decide that for me.
I turn over in bed, pressing the heel of my palm to my forehead, trying to breathe, willing myself not to scream.
The harsh sunlight pours through the window, irritating me some more. I can still smell him on my skin, taste him on my lips, and most definitely feel the ache between my legs.
Whatever.
I snatch my phone off the nightstand with enough force to make the lamp wobble; my thumb flies across the screen as if it had personally wronged me.
