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“But that’s just it, isn’t it?”
“What?”
“Anybody can be turned. How can you trust someone to be loyal? To trust someone with your life or your heart? It’s like the closer I get to wanting to try, the world shows me why that isn’t a good idea.”
Are we even still talking about what happened, or is he talking about us? Is he saying he wanted to try to trust me with his heart, and now he doesn’t want to? Or am I interpreting what he’s saying to mean what I want it to? It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve made that mistake with a man.
“My remaining men are doing fine. A little banged up expressed explicitly that this was not my fault. If I decide to keep offering my services to the FBI, they will help rebuild our team and modify operations. Their loyalty restores some faith that the right people can be trusted.”
I want to scream that he can trust me, but those are just words. He has to feel it and just know that he can. My heart aches at the disconnect. I know beyond certainty that I’ve fallen in love with this man. Professing this love would only drive the wedge between us further. I just need him to open his eyes and see what’s in front of him besides the broken women he picked up along the deserted road. When our bodies connect, I feel all the love he holds back from me. His tenderness and gentle touches are the best—after he’s fucked me hard of course.
I can feel myself flush just thinking about his weight on top of me … his masculinity as he drives into me. “Umm. I’m going grab a shower,” I say as I get and rake the rest of my food in the trash. He studies me as I put my plate in the sink on top of his. “ But you’re right. Some people can be trusted. They will show you,” I hint, walking backing toward the bathroom. He doesn’t move or speak.
I close the door and start the shower. I wait with bated breath, hoping the bathroom door would open—that he would end this distance between us. I need him to fuck me—to make me feel.
I wait, but he doesn’t come. This is on me. I don’t want cordial and professionalism. I want things to go back to when he couldn’t get enough of me … when his sexual appetite couldn’t be sated. I’m tempted to slip my fingers between my folds to stave off the ache, but I think it would just intensify this hunger I have for him. I’m going to do it. I will make the move needed to get us back to where we were. If he rejects me, then I know where I stand.
I wash my hair, shave, and moisturize, delaying this decision to meet him at the crossroads. His response is going to determine how our last days play out. Hard to believe it’s only been a month since we’ve met.
I dry off but pause at the door when I hear his voice in his opened bedroom door. “So two more days before this is over,” he seems to be confirming. “Great. I’ll let her know it’s over.”
I step back into the bathroom as not to be caught eavesdropping. So it’s finally over. That’s so bittersweet. On the one hand, I get to see my parents. On the other hand, does that mean these are the last two days I will see Huxley? The bare thought is enough to solidify my decision to make a move. If two days are all we have, then I want to make the most of it. I drop my towel.
