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“Yes, I am!” I relentlessly punch his torso until he grabs my wrists.
“Just fucking stay!” he shouts, pinning my arms on each side of my head. His chest rises and falls rapidly as his pleading eyes sink into mine. Eventually, his anger flops, leaving room for a desperation that shatters me. “Please…”
I can’t think. I can’t speak.
A lapse of judgment. That’s what hits me. Just fucking stay. The words pry their way out of my mouth before I can stop them.
“Make me.”
His lips part. All we do is stare at each other in silence.
I look at him.
He looks at me.
And we realize the same thing at the same time.
What the hell are we doing right now?
The breath is knocked out of me when his lips roughly slam against mine and one of his hands slips into my hair. I should get him off me. I should push him away after all the horrible things he just spat in my face. But I can’t. I don’t want to. Instead, I do the wrong thing for even worse reasons. I find myself kissing him back, our moving tongues making me forget the words we didn’t mean… the words we should’ve meant.
I don’t know how we find ourselves on the couch. I don’t know how he ends up on top of me, tearing off my underwear with his teeth, and I especially don’t know how I end up moaning into his mouth while he pushes himself inside me.
I don’t know why my body responds to him this way, to the strong roll of his hips, to his tongue on my burning skin. Truth is, I don’t know anythi
ng when it comes to Haze… and I want it to stay that way.
I don’t want to know. I don’t want to think.
If I do, I’ll be reminded that we’re doomed. That next Friday, I’ll be on a plane taking me far, far away.
Away from this place.
Away from my family.
Away from him.
He rests my leg on his shoulder and takes it further, deeper.
I hate him.
I hate him so fucking much.
But I love him more.
“You’re not leaving me,” he grunts into my ear and speeds up his thrusting to the point of making me shake. He once told me that I was his, and, when he pushes so deep that my eyes roll back, I know it’s true. I hate it.
I hate it more than words can say. But he’s right.
He’s right and he always will be…
I’m his.
Haze
A phone.
That’s what wakes me up. I stretch, my hand automatically wandering to her side of the bed—let me rephrase—the side where she should be, and frown when the silk sheets skim the tips of my fingers. She isn’t lying next to me. I rub my eyes and peel them open, ignoring Winter’s phone going off on the nightstand.
