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Boyd
Iknow the second I say it that it’s a mistake, but the words tumble out of me before I can stop them, desperate to make her understand. To show I am trying and that I do care, but that I’m a giant fucking mess who will never deserve her.
She freezes as I spill, thick ropes of my seed painting the inside of her glorious cunt, her clit spasming against my thumb as she shatters with her orgasm. I can tell she doesn’t come from the penetration, her pussy clenching but not spasming, and it makes me feel like an asshole for taking her virginity like this.
Problem is, I am an asshole. And I don’t know how to be gentle with her, not like this—not when she’s spiraling, teetering on the edge of sanity and needing someone to help her regain control.
She scrambles off of me in an instant, the loss of her warmth sudden and startling; I smell the faint scent of her blood mixed with our sweat and cum, and I already know that’s going to be difficult to explain when we go back outside.
I hear her run to the door, and she props it open just enough to see inside; her naked body glows in the glittering sunlight, even as she holds her breasts in one arm and covers her cunt with the other, as if I haven’t seen everything she has to offer.
Her hands scrape along the floor, searching for her clothes, and I clear my throat as I reach for mine, stepping back into the suit I had on before. She yanks her pink dress over her head and runs a hand through her hair, exhaling a shaky breath as she gets to her feet, her heels still somehow intact after all that.
“So,” I say after a long stretch of silence, an awkward feeling settling in the pit of my stomach. “Are we gonna talk about what just happened, or...”
Getting to her feet, Fiona scrubs her hands over her freckled face, turning her brown eyes my way. She reaches behind her head, pulling her red locks into a low bun, and shakes her head. “I’d rather we didn’t.”
My eyebrows knit together in confusion, and I slide my slacks up over my half-flaccid dick, tucking my dress shirt inside and zipping them up. “You don’t want to talk about me telling you I—”
“You don’t love me, Boyd.”
Her words take me by surprise, making my head jerk back. Not exactly the warm reception I’d expected. “Now you’re an expert on what I’m feeling?”
“Since we started sneaking around, how many times have you dealt with the demons harassing you? And don’t say there aren’t any, because I know. Maybe not the specifics, but I see you’re struggling. Sometimes it feels like looking into a mirror,” she says.
“Just because you don’t see me doing it, doesn’t mean—”
“Who was at your house this weekend?” she asks, interrupting me the way I used to her when she’d run off on a tangent, nerves getting the best of her. “Why were you in therapy as a kid? Why did you stop going?”
My hands clench at my sides, the invasive questions causing a chasm of discomfort to open up in my chest. “That’s not really any of your business.”
Mouth slackening, her face falls with the motion, disappointment seeming to etch itself into her soul as she stares at me, half shrouded in the darkness.
Meanwhile, she stands in the sunshine, basking in its warmth, and it feels like we’re worlds away.
“If you loved me, you’d want to confide in me. You’d share your problems with me, and we’d work through them together.” Taking a few steps closer, she stops just in front of me, reaching out and placing her hand over my heart. “You don’t love me, you love what I do for you. I’m a distraction, and it feels good to focus on me instead of everything else that’s going on in your life. Everything that’s going wrong.”
I cover her hand with mine, squeezing—trying to keep her tethered to me. But even as we connect, that magnetism weakens, as if sex was a catalyst and we’ve suddenly burned up the pieces that make up the two of us together.
“I won’t lie and say I wasn’t doing it, too. All of this. But... I think we’ve just got too much going on in our lives right now. Too many secrets between us. I don’t think I can handle the added anxiety that comes from wondering why you can’t open up to me.” She tilts her head, smiling sadly. “I’d never be able to stop thinking that you’re hiding something.”
An electric spark contracts the muscles in my chest, pulling them tight. Alarm worms its way into my soul. “I’m sorry about the other night. Christ, I... I was trying to protect you, I didn’t really want you to fucking go.”
“Protect me from what?”
I hesitate, still not ready to reveal the attack on Riley when she hasn’t woken from the drug-induced coma Kal ended up putting her in.
He’d said her injuries were extensive, though not life-threatening, and that the coma would ensure she rested and allow her body to heal on its own.
Otherwise, if she resumed physical activities or stressed herself too much, she could cause more internal damage that could end up requiring surgery or being permanent.
And with LeeAnn and Romeo still lurking around town, I especially don’t want Fiona involved. Don’t want to be the reason she gets hurt.
“The what doesn’t matter.” I reach for her, sliding my hands around her hips, but she steps back out of the way. “Christ, Fiona. What am I supposed to do here? Do you want me to grovel? Get on my knees and say I’m fucking sorry for being a dick, for sometimes using you, for chasing you away instead of inviting you to help?”
“Do you mean any of that?”
I stay silent, my pride raging inside as she calls me out on my bullshit. It makes my heart ache, like she’s driving a dull knife right into the organ, baring my soul for all to see. I’m bleeding out in front of her, and she continues turning the blade, wringing out as much from me as she can possibly get.
