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So why did she come here drunk with wine in hand? Said she should go, then frowned and told me that I look like shit, then came inside and told me I should have some wine.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think we’d reversed roles and Gwenna had a mind to take me out.
Well—I might if this fucking cork wasn’t stuffed so fucking tightly in the bottle. I look up at her, and as I work the cork out, using my left arm to hold the bottle since my hand won’t work, I think of big things stuffed in little spaces, my cock, Gwen’s cunt; I wonder what she feels like underneath my jacket, if her skin is warm, if her pants have an elastic waist or button and zipper. I think of hauling her over to the couch and finding out. My tongue sweeping through her sweet, slick, puffy lips, and then—
I’m hard.
Fuck.
I try to think of what I’ll have to do to her. I think of Gwen in pain, of that betrayal in her eyes, and…I’m still fucking hard.
Finally, the cork pops free. I pour a glass for each of us and Gwenna takes hers, looking more spooked than I’ve ever seen her. As if she can hear my thoughts and knows just what a fuck I am, and knows that she should go.
I drain my glass and watch her, daring her to go.
Go now—while you can.
The way I’m looking at her has her flustered. As if I care. I don’t. I like it. I let my gaze linger on her pretty face until her soft, smooth skin is cherry red. Until she takes my jacket off, revealing a light green sweater and dark gray pants that, from where I stand, seem to have a button and a zipper.
“I—” she starts.
I pour more wine into my glass, causing her to bite down on her lower lip again. “I’m going to go now.” She looks over my shoulder, at the clock, I realize, following her gaze. “It’s almost eleven o’clock. I shouldn’t have come too late.”
Inside my head, it burns and roars. My wants and needs and shoulds; desire and discipline.
Protect her.
Have her.
Soothe her.
Banish her.
I even think of getting on my bike and driving off, just riding far, far, far away until she isn’t near enough to touch and smell. Until I’m not so tempted I feel like I can’t breathe.
I try to swallow, loosen up my throat. Around my glass’s stem, my fingers clench.
My gaze rips up and down her. What’s so special about her? Of all the women, why this one?
I try to focus on her mouth: the defect. I look at the left side of her mouth and think of what it represents and how it looks—all things that should repel me. I think about her ankle, about the scars I felt on her silk-soft belly as I ate her pussy. I try to tell myself it’s not even me she wants. She’d take any company, perhaps.
Or maybe it’s my body. I see the way she looks at me. She wants my abs, my chest, these shoulders that are waning every day I don’t work out. I can’t work out, not for more than an hour or two at a time. I’m so low on sleep, it makes my heart beat fast, and then I think of Ly and end up with my head between my knees.
I conjure an image of myself hugging the toilet bowl—and crying. What woman wants a man who cries every time he falls asleep? What woman wants someone who’s seen a child bleed out and walked away, who’s choked on smoke that billows up off burning corpses?
I can feel her hugging me at her house, on the couch that night. The night I should have realized I can’t do this with her. I can’t creep so close to her. The ground begins to crumple and I slip and fall.
“Anyway…” She steps to the counter, lays my jacket on it. Her brows lift as her eyes roll down me. “I hope you have a good rest of your night.”
She turns toward the door and takes a small step toward it.
“Hey—wait.”
Her feet stop moving and she looks over her shoulder.
“Don’t you want to…come sit down?” I motion at the couch and watch the indecision flit across her face.
“Umm, I don’t—”
