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“True,” I concede, taking a sip from my cocktail. Tim always made my family celebrations seem so embarrassing. At first, it was just little comments and refusing to participate but every year it seemed like it became more and more of an issue, until he just flat-out refused to go. I had to beg and plead to get him to come last year.
“I just want to say one thing about Tim. I am not some spineless woman who just goes running back to a guy who so easily tossed me aside to screw someone he barely knows. I’m not holding on. I know I don’t want to take him back, but I do feel like I deserve to have a sit-down with him. I deserve the chance to speak my mind and just explain to him how hurt I’ve been and what I wanted from him. I need that closure before I start attempting to move on, with or without someone new.”
Ariel eyes me suspiciously. “Just be careful, that’s how they suck you back into the dicksand. You sit down to talk about your feelings and do a postmortem on your relationship, and then you get pulled right back in because they make you think thatthistime it will be different,thistime they’ll change.” She reaches over and grabs my hand. “But they never do, sis.”
* * *
To saymy sleep was fitful is an understatement.
I kept replaying the kiss in my head over and over. One particular part. The look in his eyes when he lunged at me, grabbing my hands and sliding them up my body to pin them above my head.
While Tim is the only guy I’ve been with fully, I kissed guys in high school and college. Nobody ever kissed me like that. Nobody has ever looked at me the way Alexander Snow looks at me.
I slide my hand beneath the covers, straight into my panties. My eyes squeeze shut as I stroke myself, wetness pooling instantly as I imagine Alex’s fingers dancing across my clit instead of my own.
I imagine what it would have been like if he had done this to me in the elevator the night before. Would I have stopped him? Would I have let him explore my body with his tongue the way he did my mouth? His kiss was demanding; it didn’t ask, it wasn’t timid. It felt like he was claiming me, and I wanted it.
With Tim, there was never any sort of territorial claiming or all-consuming desire. It was always the Tim show. For years, I managed to convince myself that I just wasn’t into sex like everyone else was. When my friends would tell stories about hot encounters or wild nights they had, I convinced myself I didn’t want that. I wanted a man to make love to me gently, to hold me after. And I didn’t care if I came or not, what mattered was if we connected.
But now? Now I want a man—No—I wantAlexto claim me. To mark me. Make me his, however he wants, even if it means breaking me in half. I want him to take control of my body and pull out my wanton and wild side.
Heat builds in my body. I kick the covers off as my back arches off my sweaty sheets. I’m close. I bite down on my lip, a small moan tumbling from my mouth as I quicken my movements. I relax, letting the orgasm roll through my body from my toes all the way up until it explodes into white fireworks behind my eyes.
I toss my arm over my face, giggling to myself. Normally, I’d feel ashamed for picturing a man I wasn’t in a relationship with, but for some reason I have the urge to pick up my phone and text Alex, telling him what I just did in detail. He’s the kind of man who would find it sexy, who would call me and tell me to do it again while he listened, or maybe even jump in his car and drive across town to watch me do it in person.
The few times I tried to be spontaneous with Tim, sending him an alluring picture or a naughty text in the middle of the workday, he called me, convinced I meant to send it to someone else and leaving me in tears.
“What the hell, Sadie?” I say aloud as I sit up, frustrated at how much I put up with from him.
I didn’t go crazy with the drinking last night, but I still feel the twinge of a headache coming on, as well as the telltale twisting of my guts, telling me my stomach isn’t too happy with me either. As someone who has about two drinks a month, drinking a lot two nights in a row means my body is certainly feeling it.
I stretch my arms overhead, yawning, then dip into a forward fold. Once my body feels more limber, I walk to the kitchen and put on a pot of coffee before heading to the shower. I don’t have any plans today except to relax and maybe catch a Christmas movie or two on Hallmark.
After my shower, I make myself a cup of coffee with an extra serving or two of my favorite peppermint mocha creamer and scroll through the bestie group chat that’s littered with a few unanswered texts from my friends after we left the bar last night. I laugh as I read them, remembering how hard they tried to push me to surprise him at his penthouse again.
Caleb:Did you end up at Mr. Candy Cane’s last night?
Ariel:Yeah how’s his yule log doing?
Karlie:I don’t have a funny holiday pun but if you went over there after and didn’t tell us, that’s criminal. Love you!
I tug the fridge open, bending down to assess the contents.
“Oh gross,” I groan, sniffing a leftover container from god knows when. I toss it in the garbage and continue checking the fridge. Literally, all I have are frozen vegetables, condiments, and a few pieces of fruit.
I’m usually on top of my game when it comes to having a stocked kitchen and home-cooked meals, but ever since Tim moved out, my motivation has waned. I suddenly feel a burst of motivation though, a desire to start putting myself first and focusing on the things that bring me joy. I love cooking, baking especially, but in the last year it felt like my efforts were wasted.
When I would take the time to create a really spectacular and often time-consuming dish, Tim would get home too late to enjoy it, then refuse to eat leftovers the next day; or he would flat out tell me it wasn’t what he was in the mood for and order something for delivery.
I used to make baked goods for him to take to work, something he loved. He told me he bragged about me at work and the other guys were jealous their girlfriends didn’t make them cinnamon buns or muffins in the morning. But lately, that all changed…so did the friendships I’d made with his work colleagues.
I used to go to happy hours with Tim and a few work buddies now and then. I even partied with them at their annual holiday party. But I haven’t seen them or been invited to go out with them in months. I think about one of his coworkers, Jeff, a partner at the firm who was always so nice to me. I wonder how things are going with him and his wife, Melody.
I sigh and reach for the fridge handle once more to make sure there wasn’t some delicious item I’d somehow missed when I hear a knock at my apartment door. I rush over, lifting onto my tiptoes to look through the peephole. Panic washes over me when I see Alex standing outside my door.
“Shit, shit, shit!” I glance around and see my reflection in the mirror on the far wall. My wet hair is clinging to my neck, and my ratty pajamas and mismatched socks are a far cry from the sexy ho-ho-ho getup from last night.
“Uh, uh just a minute!” I shout as I light a candle and fluff a few pillows, as if that’s going to distract from the fact that I look like I slept in a dumpster with a family of raccoons.
