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“I know this: you jerked off in front of me without a care in the world; you dangle me around, making me wait hours and hours for you with little consideration for my feelings; you got me to do your bidding from day one; you threaten people like Bianchi, because you can, and even if he deserved it, most people wouldn’t be in the position to do so and get away with it, but you are; and you touch me when you want, but worse, you make me want it, too. You do these things, and I hate them, yet I can’t stop thinking about you. You’ve made me wake up wet and aching for you dozens of times, and each time, I slip my fingers between the folds of my pussy, mortified by how wet you make me, and make myself come, pretending it’s you, but it doesn’t live up to the real thing. What if I want to be that to another person? What if I want to be irreplaceable? That’s not the kind of thing you can just make happen.”
I knew she was drunk, but it didn’t lessen the impact of her words.
She dreamed of me.
She fantasized about me.
She thought I was irreplaceable.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Dangerous words from a dangerous woman, who saw more of me than I’d thought she did.
But I doubted she saw the inside, past the shiny exterior.
The inside, where nothing existed.
No wants. No desires. Nothing.
A hole where dreams and aspirations should have lived but didn’t, because what I truly wanted—my son—was so far out of reach, I couldn’t even dream of it.
“You don’t want to be me.”
“Fine,” she agreed. “Maybe I don’t. But I want to know that, if it were my one true desire, I could.”
Her confessions made her bare before me, but they didn’t make her weak. The opposite, actually.
She was strength and vulnerability, intertwined so thoroughly, I had no clue which was which.
I ran my palm across my jaw and stared at the vodka bottle before taking in the way she gave me all of her attention. “You strike me as the type of person who can do anything.”
Maybe it was because I doubted she’d remember this in the morning, but honesty felt like the right approach here.
“Really?”
“I don’t lie.”
Except to myself.
She sighed, closed her eyes, and stood.
“I do. I’m probably the biggest liar you’ve ever met.”
I doubted that.
Whatever the fuck that meant escaped me as she stood. I half expected her to leave. Instead, she grabbed my hand, and I let her slide it up the skirt of her dress, wondering how far she’d take this.
She used my hand to push aside her lace panties. My nails grazed the lips of her pussy. I didn’t move them. Just let them sit there as every cell in my body warred with my head.
“Touch me.”
Her eyes spoke of no uncertainty. Just sheer, unfiltered need. Her tone was a decibel short of begging, but one look at her, and I knew she wasn’t going to.
I swiped a finger between her lips, gathered her wetness, brought it to her mouth, and slipped my finger inside.
“I make you so wet.”
“Sometimes, I hate you.” She latched her lips around my finger and sucked, so damned greedy for us to happen.
