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He doesn't stop, of course. He stands there, all tall and smug and handsome. "This thing you're doing with Damon is transparent."
"What thing is that?" I ask.
"Making out in front of me. It's pathetic."
"The world doesn't revolve around you." Seriously, I'm pathetic? He's the one who thinks I'm kissing a guy solely for his benefit.
It's only tangentially for his benefit.
He scoffs in a way that's supposed to say please, we both know that isn't true, but it sounds more like yes, the world does revolve around me. That's pretty obvious.
"Look me in the eyes and tell me you didn't think about that night in Paris when you put on that dress." He motions to the low neckline.
What the hell is he talking about? "What night?"
"Please, Cassie. I know you. You stood there, staring at yourself in the mirror, replaying every minute in your head."
"I don't even know what you're talking about."
His voice drops an octave. "Yes, you do."
Oh. That night. It all comes rushing back to me at once. And in surround sound, too.
A hot day in July. A long wait for the Eiffel Tower. A night walking around the city.
Then, the dark, quiet bar. I was wearing a top like this, one cut low, without a bra. He kissed me with all that need and intensity. Then he whispered should we put on a show and he peeled the fabric from my skin so anyone could see.
So everyone could see.
My skin flushes. My sex clenches. Damn traitorous body. How dare it get hot at a memory of the guy who betrayed me?
But that's the thing. He's not just the guy who hurt me.
He's the guy who loved me. The guy I loved.
And we were great for a while. That beautiful time between when I switched medication to when his passion faded—
There was a lot of fan-fucking-tastic sex.
I can pretend it never happened, but that doesn't change anything. It still happened. I still wanted him.
I still loved him.
I still believed him when he told me he'd love me forever.
All the Alanis Morrisette songs in the world won't change that.
"You're thinking about it now," he says.
"You asked me to think about it." Anger overrides any hint of sentiment. Or sense. Seriously, where the fuck does he get off trying to dirty talk to me? "What's the difference to you?"
"We broke up. I know it hurts. You don't have to walk around, trying to make me jealous."
"THE WORLD DOESN'T REVOLVE AROUND YOU!" I say it again. Okay, I yell it.
A few people look our way.
A few more.
Ugh. Whatever.
I'm not standing here and listening to this bullshit. "I wore this dress because it makes me feel good. And because I want my boyfriend to touch me. It has nothing to do with you. Sure, that night was hot. It was the best sex we ever had. But I don't think about you that way anymore. I don't dress for you. I'm wearing this for myself. So I can top that night tonight. Because I want to." Shit. I basically admitted Frederick was the best I ever had. But whatever.
I am so out of here.
I shoot him my best fuck off smile; I march to the bar; I grab my fake boyfriend, and I pull him away from the other woman.
I take a long sip, but the drink does nothing to slow me.
"What are you doing?" he asks as I drag him to the glass doors.
"Something rash." I step through the door to the courtyard. The one with a pool surrounded by tall ferns.
"Okay." He wraps his arms around my waist. His eyes flit to the table where Frederick is standing.
He is watching us.
Victory.
I don't wait. I rise to my tiptoes and I kiss Damon.
He kisses back with hunger and need. One hand goes to my hips. The other goes to my cheek. It's tender and sweet and it feels good.
But I need more.
I need to show this.
"Touch me." I bring my lips to his ear. "Please."
"Cass—"
"I need him to see." I wrap my fingers around his wrist. I bring his hand to my chest, the spot just below my collarbones. "I need to make him jealous."
"What did he say?" he asks.
"Does it matter?" The words come out desperate. Maybe the bastard is right. Maybe this is a pathetic charade. Even so. I need to make him hurt. "Please, Damon. If you don't want to—"
"Are you okay?"
"No. Please."
"Fuck, Cass." There's nothing phony in his voice this time. Only real need. "This is not how I pictured you begging me to touch you."
"You pictured it?"
"Yeah." His voice drops. "Too many times."
"So do it." I need this. I need him. I need someone to want me enough they don't throw me away. "Touch me, Damon. Please."
Chapter Twenty
Damon
Touch me, Damon. Please.
It's official. My fake girlfriend is out of her mind. Even worse, I'm out of mine.
