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“And it's killing me,” he continues.
“But you had to know…”
“I wasn't sure what I was going to feel when I saw Samantha. I was worried I wouldn't be able to end it, but seeing her again, seeing how well she's doing, I realized I really don't love her anymore, not the way I used to.”
“That's good,” I say.
“No, it's awful. I want you, and I can't have you, because you're with this stupid asshole. And I spend the drive back thinking about you. I spend the whole night thinking about you. And, when I get back to work, Ryan greets me with this shit eating grin, and he thanks me for standing up for you and your show. Says you acted really grateful. Gives me all these details about how you were begging him. How he made you come.”
“I was thinking about you,” I say.
“Jesus, what am I supposed to do with that?” He moves off the bed, his body turning away from mine. “Is that supposed to be comforting?”
“Maybe,” I say. “I know it's stupid. But I was drunk, and I…I was so afraid you were with her.”
“And I knew you were engaged when I started this, so I really have no leg to stand on here,” he says and runs a hand through his hair.
“I'm sorry. This is confusing,” I say.
“I'm trying to give you time.”
“I don't want time.”
“What do you want?” he asks.
“Why do we have to figure things out so far ahead? If I wasn't engaged to Ryan, you wouldn't be asking about the future.”
“I know it's unfair. I knew you were engaged. I knew you cared about him. I knew you were fucking him. I knew all this, and I still asked you to be with me.”
His fingers graze my back, a soft, sweet stroke.
“I thought we would have fun. Ease each other’s loneliness for a while. I thought I could handle it, but I can't. I stay up all night imagining him touching you, making you feel so good you could die, and it makes me sick. It makes me sick knowing he makes you come.”
His fingers slide down my spine.
“I know it's not fair to ask you not to fuck your fiancé, but I'm asking. Don't fuck him.”
He looks at me with those big, brown eyes. Those big, brown eyes, full of anguish and need. No one has ever looked at me like that, like my response could break his heart.
“Okay,” I say. “I won't.”
“Don't hug him. Don't touch him. Don't kiss him.”
“I'll try,” I say.
“You have to promise.”
His fingers slide over the sides of my panties.
“You aren't playing very fair,” I say, and he murmurs some agreement, his hands pressing against my back. He unhooks my bra and peels it off my chest.
“And when you were sending me those pictures?”
“That's different,” I say.
“How?”
“I wanted you to fuck me.”
