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I tried, too, not to feel it as his body slumped forward onto the mattress, out cold, body holding my towel hostage, making me hop up stark naked.
I tried not to feel it as I quickly dressed, as I grabbed my things, as I hauled ass out of the hotel before he could wake up and try to track me.
But there was no denying it.
I felt it.
Guilt.
Because I wasn't like him.
I wasn't a liar.
I couldn't even lie to my damn self
And I felt guilt about hurting him, regardless of what he had done to me in the end.
Because, in the beginning, he'd made me fall in love with him.- PAST -Mackenzie - 15 years agoI suddenly understood turns of phrases that had always eluded me in the past, no matter how smitten I had thought I had been with some random guy at school, or how much my heart fluttered a bit over romance novels, or cheesy romantic movies.
I understood all the seemingly over-the-top sensations there were entire industries built around, ones that - I had thought - made bank off of the unrealistic hopes of naive people.
But, now, I was counting down the days until the next Valentine's, wondering if Mikhail would remember that my favorite flowers were tulips, if he would get my chocolates - dark with sea salt and caramel, if he would take me out somewhere fancy, maybe even to the fountain where we'd had our first kiss.
I wouldn't let myself consider the more logical side of things. Like where we would be that many months in the future. Like if his business in Armenia would last past the next few weeks. Like, even if it did, if I would still be in the country.
All that mattered was the here and now, was the way I counted down the hours until I was out of work, until I could see him again, listen to him tell me stories about the places he had seen, doing so in so much detail that as I listened, I swore I could hear the chatter of foreign languages, I could smell the unique spices of international cuisines, I could see the sweeping sunsets, the mountains and the deserts.
I thought that, had he not been a businessman, he would have made an amazing novelist.
After listening to him tell me about a small village in South America, I had even told him that I thought he should write, something that made those deep eyes of his go warm, bright.
He'd been unexpectedly slow with me. From what I knew about guys in my very limited experience, the talking, the dates, the kissing, it was all just a ruse to get more, go further.
The end game was always to get naked, get it all.
But Mikhail had taken things slowly, had brought me on several dates before he even showed any interest in kissing me.
God, that kiss.
It was a full-on romance movie kiss. Hollywood style.
I had seen through the fabric of time and space.
I had felt it in every cell in my body.
And then... nothing.
Two more dates.
No more kissing, save for a sweet kiss at my temple as he hugged me goodnight.
I would toss and turn at night after each date, picking apart every moment of it, over-analyzing everything said, trying to figure out what was wrong, what I was maybe doing to make things go backward instead of forward.
But the fact of the matter was, he hadn't been pulling away like I had messed something up. He'd been just as sweet, charming, attentive, and, well, seemingly interested.
Maybe he was one of those rare creatures - at least of the male variety - who liked the long game, who enjoyed delayed gratification.
Me, well...
I had always thought of myself as a good girl, as cheesy and outdated as that phrase may have been.
I'd been kissed. I'd messed around a little bit. But things never went too far. I simply never wanted them too.
There was no denying it with Mikhail, though.
I wanted it to go too far.
I wanted to go beyond that, if a 'beyond that' existed.
There was this undeniable aching weight on my lower belly, this pulsing need between my thighs.
I'd never been one for masturbation before. I mean, I'd done it. Who hasn't? But it had always felt disconnected, unsatisfying. And, as a whole, just unnecessary.
I couldn't make the same claim since meeting Mikhail. It became impossible even to get through the day, to be able to focus on basic, banal daily tasks, the sexual frustration had become so strong. If I didn't take some time alone, reach down to lessen the ache, I wouldn't have been able to function.
A part of me wished I were confident enough to say that, to tell him I was dying for more, that I needed his hands on me, his mouth, everything.
