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Just two fucking idiots in love.
I swallow the thickness in my throat and whisper my truth.
“If I drown, you’re drowning with me. If you burn, I’m burning too. Pick your route to hell, Rafe. The destination and the company are the same.”
He makes a noise of anger. Grabs a fistful of my sopping ponytail.
And then he makes me a millionaire.
His mouth presses against mine, hot and desperate. My lips only part to let out a gasp from the shock, but he immediately slides his tongue in. As he tastes me, his moan fills my mouth, triggering violent, fire-starting sparks between my thighs. Fuck the storm; I can’t feel the freeze anymore. With every animalistic glide of his tongue against mine, with every nip on my bottom lip, my body grows so hot I could melt the Arctic.
His fingers slide down my nape and grip me there. Not only am I in his trap, the chains are pulled taut; he won’t let me move an inch. He leans into my hand wrapped around his throat when I pull back for air. Steps between my thighs when I attempt to twist my head from his grip. The warm heat of his groin radiates through the thin fabric of my thong, melting underneath into something pliable. Something that fits in his hands as perfectly as the rest of me does.
As he scrapes his teeth over my bottom lip, his stare clashes with mine through the sheet of rain. A pool of green lava, as angry and as reckless as his kiss. “Of course I’ve seenThefuckingNotebook,” he growls, before fusing his mouth to mine again.
He refuses to break the kiss, even as he slaps my thighs so I wrap them around his waist.
Even as he lifts me off the railing and carries me inside. As he drops me on the bed, removes my clothes, and covers me with his hot, bloodied body.
And as he slides himself inside me, I hope he never does.
I wake up among damp sheets, swollen with unease. The type that fills all the hollow parts of me and pushes against my organs.
I’m on my side, facing the wall. My crumpled shirt, stained with second-hand blood, lies on the floor drying. A cool breeze taunts my bare back and I know.
But I lie here a little longer, playing my new favorite game: make-believe.
The rules are simple. If I just squeeze my eyes shut and clamp my hands over my ears, I can play it for as long as I like. I can feel the reassuring weight of his arm draped over my hip. Feel his lazy breaths tickling my nape.
But the thing about make-believe is, you can’t play it forever. I knew it on Christmas Day, and I know it now.
Movements slowed by dread, I roll onto my back and swipe my hand over his side of the bed. It’s as empty and cold as my heart. My fingers slide beneath his pillow and brush against something underneath it.
I prop myself up on my elbow and inspect it. It’s a card wrapped in a piece of paper. I unravel the paper and realize it’s a check for a million dollars. Then my eyes fall to the business card. To the number I know by heart, then to the written words that I don’t.
I own Sinners Anonymous.
I’m sorry.
Rafe.
I stare at it for the longest time. Not an ounce of emotion flowing through my blood. Not a single thought filling my head.
And then I curl my hand around the lamp on the bedside table, and I throw it at the wall.
Lustburns.
Love cuts.
But betrayal? It fuckingincinerates.
I stand shaking in the shower, unable to tell whether it’s the stream from the faucet or my tears that’s blurring my vision. They aren’t tears of sadness, but of rage, and the cuts on my hands are the product of it.
Smashed glass, broken lamps. Clothes slashed into a thousand strips. I destroyed everything in my wake, because I couldn’t let go of him quietly like he did me. Fuck, I would have set the yacht on fire in a heartbeat if I wasn’t on it.
Rafe owns Sinners Anonymous.My oldest friend, my fucking confidant. He might as well have taken my diary, had the pages enlarged, and pasted them all over town. The humiliation feels the same.
The whole time, I thought I knew all the games we played, yet little did I know he was playing the biggest game of all. Maybe it’s karma—the swindler finally getting swindled. God, how I wish he’d only taken money from my pocket, and not ripped my entire center from my chest.
