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I just want him.
Not the fake front he puts up for everyone—the charming, clever, confident facade he assigns to himself when the true Clay wants to hide. I’ve known him long enough to know the difference.
My father calls me a bleeding heart. I think he means it in an endearing sort of way, but I sort of hate it. Because Icare. And right now, I care about Clay.
For as long as he lets me, I will.
Reluctantly, I climb out of the car and face him. My heart seems to lurch right out of my chest every time I look at him. With his warm-brown hair and stunning green eyes, he’s the most handsome man I’ve ever met, but that’s not it. I see right through the mask and notice things no one else does, like the sadness in his eyes or the way he seems so desperate for my touch. I think he must have been deprived of human contact.
When he sees my despondent expression, his shoulders sag. He corners me against his car, running his hand over my arms and kissing my forehead.
“Do you wanna come up?” he asks softly.
I do. I always want to come up.
But when I get the feeling the person I’ve poured my heart out to isn’t pouring their heart out to me…it makes me feel vulnerable. And a little silly.
His fingers touch the spot under my chin as he lifts my face to look at him. I’m staring into his emerald-green eyes, wishing he’d just be real with me.
“You’re mad because I won’t tell you about some woman at the movie theater?” He tries to laugh it off like I’m the ridiculous one, and it pisses me off. Clenching my teeth, I try to weasel myself out of his grasp.
“You don’t get it,” I mutter.
“You’re right, Jade. I don’t. Why do you want to know so much?”
I spin on him and stare at him incredulously. “Because I care about you, Clay. And it’s not about the woman. It’s about the fact that something has been bothering you since you saw her, but instead of opening up to me, you fake a smile and tell meit’s complicated.”
Turning away from me in frustration, he runs his hands through his hair. As I watch him struggle with what to say, I want to wrap my arms around him.
Being in a relationship is hard. I thought when this all started that I could just love him, and that would be enough, but it’s not. There’s so much worry and frustration, and emotions that get lost in translation. On top of everything is this nagging fear that I’m giving too much or not enough.
Is loving a person truly enough when existing together requires so much more?
He still has his back to me, his fingers laced at the back of his neck as he stares out at the traffic on the road passing us by.
“Forget it,” I mumble as I turn toward my Jeep, parked just a few spaces down.
He lets out a frustrated, strangled noise, looking as if he’s pulling out his hair. “Fuck it.”
Then he mutters something in a surrendering tone. “She was my Domme.”
His voice is low but frantic, clearly uncomfortable with saying…whatever he just said.
I pause and stare at him with my brow wrinkled in confusion. “What?”
A loud, heavy sigh full of aggravation comes barreling out of his mouth as he turns toward me. As his eyes meet mine, I realize he’s not giving me the fake Clay right now. He’s being real.
I step toward him.
His fists are clenched, pain etched in his features. “I can’t believe I’m telling you this. But I don’t want secrets with you.”
My lips part in surprise. “Okay…” I whisper.
Releasing his fists, he steps away. We’re alone in the dark parking lot, cars moving on the busy street in front of us. It creates a comforting white noise that’s better than silence. It makes us feel less alone.
“She’s a Dominatrix. I paid her to be my Domme,” he says, looking at the ground as he speaks.
“What does that mean?”
