How does a man like that ever look at a girl like me and still want her?
My body feels foreign. Violated. Not mine anymore. And I wonder—does he not think about how many hands have touched me? Does he not feel the taint of it when he sees me now?
But then when he does look at me, it’s not pity, nor with doubt. Just that steady, anchoring gaze like I’m still his whole world.
And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.
He steadies me with a firm hand until I’m settled in his bed—his bed, because it’s where I’ve ended up every night since I came home. He doesn’t question it, doesn’t push me away. He’s simply allowed it, like he understands this is where I feel safest.
As the warmth of the Valium starts to seep through me, I reach for him, dragging him down beside me with shaky hands and a desperate kind of need. My thoughts are hazy, but the ache is sharp. I want him. I want to feel what we used to be—before everything broke.
I’m not thinking—I’m reacting.
I kiss him greedily, in that scattered sort of way—my mouth roaming, my fingers tracing every line of his skin. I want him to help my body forget. I want his touch to rewrite the damage.
“Easy, trouble,” he murmurs, holding himself just far enough away that I can’t quite wrap myself around him. “Slow down.”
“I don’t want to slow down,” I mutter, trying to draw him closer. “I want you.”
A low growl rises from his chest, deep and conflicted. For a moment, he gives in—his lips capture mine, his fingers tangle in my hair, and his hand slides down to my hip—
And then he stops.
Right when I need him most, he pulls away.
“This isn’t the time,” he says, his forehead pressing gently to mine. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
His restraint is sharp. Painful almost. And something flickers inside me that’s far darker than I remember, an unfamiliar addition to my undoing.
“I want you to hurt me,” I whisper. The words sound foreign, but not false. Maybe if he hurts me, the pain I already carry will feel less… sharp. Less real. Maybe it’ll overwrite everything else.
He stills, watching me with quiet intensity. “You don’t understand what that means,” he says softly. “You’re high. I’ll talk to you about it when you’re sober, if it’s still what you really want.”
He’s patient. Gentle. But part of me wonders—does he not want me?
The drug starts to pull me deeper, but I fight it, just for a moment longer.
“You don’t want to?” I ask, eyelids heavy, vision swimming. Three of him blur together, his expression twisted with confusion—and something else.
His body drops lower, hips grinding against me with a pressure that allows me to feel all of him, every hard goddam inch rubbing against me with a visceral need.
“Of course I want to,” he growls in my ear, nudging my face to the side with his to clear a path to my throat. “Can you notfeelhow much I want you?” To drive his point home, he pushes against me with one, long, agonising roll of his hips.
I’m losing my words. They tangle behind my teeth, heavy and disobedient, but I refuse to let go—refuse to let the haze claim me fully. I reach for him again, clutching at his shirt, my body arching in a silent plea.
“Then do it,” I whisper, lips barely forming the shape. The words stumble out with far less force than I feel. My mouth is working against me—slurred, half-coherent—but my intention is clear. I don’t want him holding back anymore.
I try to say it—stop fighting me, touch me like before, make me forget—but my voice is a mess, collapsing into broken syllables and incoherent sounds. Heat burns beneath my skin, anger or desperation or both, twisting with the ache in my gut. I want him. I want him to erase everything that came before.
His expression hardens as he pulls away, sitting up with me between his legs. He scrubs his hands down his face, jaw tight, breathing shallow.
“I don’t fuck unconscious girls, Nell,” he mutters, the words clipped and final. “Sweet dreams.”
50
Cam
She’s making this so damn hard to resist.
