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He’s lying through his teeth, but for some reason, it makes me feel a bit better.
“Why did you leave last night?” I ask him.
I hate myself for sounding like a clingy girlfriend, and when his eyes narrow, I think he might feel the same.
His fingers squeeze my knees, his eyes level with my breasts, as he’s on the floor before me, and I wonder what the endgame is.
I know this isn’t the time to bring this conversation up. I can’t help myself, it seems. My ego is bruised, and I feel like I’m not worth anything but a good fuck.
“Wryn,” he says, warning in his eyes.
I withdraw into myself. His hands work up my thighs, fingers hitting my bare skin where the slit has opened in my dress, and I shiver.
“It’s fine,” I say, gathering myself and sitting straighter. “I shouldn’t have asked. I know what this is.”
“Good,” he says curtly.
I nod, getting the message. We don’t talk about what we did. His hand settles on my breastbone, and he pushes me back until I’m lying down, legs half-dangling off the side of the bed.
“What—” I start to say, but I’m cut off by him making a growling noise.
“Don’t fucking ask questions,” he says.
I stare up at the ceiling as he drags my dress up, baring my legs and then my barely there thong to the chilly room air.
“You need to calm down, and I could stand to release some tension after the night I’ve had.”
I don’t say anything as I feel him suck my clit through the lace of my panties. My back arches, and my hands fist the comforter on the bed before finding their way into his hair. I pull, and he sucks. He holds my thong to the side and swipes his tongue through me, and I moan. My eyes are closed, and I pretend like this isn’t going to wreck me further because I’m scared that I might be starting to depend on Connor more than I would like.
I sense my nipples pucker as they rub against the material of my dress with the subtle movements of my body. Connor inserts two fingers and curls them forward, wrenching a cry from me as I crash into a sudden orgasm. It was waiting on the cusp, and I didn’t know it until he pulled it from me.
Within seconds, his belt is unbuckled, pants down, and he’s rolling on a condom that he magically procured from somewhere. Then, he’s slamming into me with a groan. It’s rough and tense and exactly what we both need to get our minds off of things, if only for a few minutes.
I don’t reach for him. I just let him pound into me as he holds my legs, his forehead breaking out into a sweat with the exertion, and then he’s coming, his body bowing over mine. He catches himself with one hand next to my head. His eyes meet mine, and we stare as he jerks a few times and then pulls out of me.
My thong snaps back into place, soaked and messy, and I feel raw and broken and maybe put together, all at the same time. It doesn’t make sense. But I know I’m not going to ask him anything about what he’s feeling. I’m too far gone right now to hear that this is nothing to him. A physical thing. I’m a means to an end in many ways for him.
And I thought that was what he was for me, too, but somewhere along the way, it started to change.
The plane ride back wasas tense as the one going, and I sat as far away from Connor as I could get. This time, it was me who ignored him, not talking or even looking in his direction.
Not that he tried to get my attention. But I knew that he knew I was avoiding him. My nerves were shot, and I tried to lay my head over and get some rest, but I couldn’t. Not after this entire day assaulted me behind my eyelids every time I closed my eyes.
The ride home after we landed was a blur, and I don’t remember even stumbling through the door or collapsing in my bed, but now that I’m here, still in my jogging pants and T-shirt that I changed into on the plane, I find myself staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep.
I don’t know if it’s because of all of the thoughts running through my head or the fact that I’m so exhausted that my body won’t let me sleep. But either way, it’s awful.
I squeeze my eyes shut tightly, trying to envision sheep and a fence for them to jump over, but I get to number three, and Viktor’s face is already forming in the dark void behind the fence, looming closer. The sound of him whispering in my ear makes me snap my eyes open.
I sit up, looking around the room lit by my bedside table lamp. My unopened bag sits on the floor beside the door, where I dropped it as soon as I walked in. I climb out of bed and cross to it. Reaching inside the side pocket, my hand clasps what I’m looking for, and I pull it out and then settle back into the bed, propping my pillows up to lean against them. I study the front of the book, the eyes peering back at me, and run my hands across the words.
The Great Gatsby.
I wonder what was so great about him.
I open it to the first page and let my eyes wander across the words, slowly letting the story build and take shape in my mind, pushing out the images of Viktor and the cold look in his gaze as he questioned me under the guise of wanting to get to know me.
I wish I could know more. I should ask Connor. But that would take talking to him, and right now, I’m not ready to face that, so I let the fantastical world of the West and East Egg nightlife and high-society parties distract me.
