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Why does it feel like my chest collapses every time she does that?
“Maddy’s Mom stopped by and brought this,” she glances subduedly over to the crockpot on the work surface. Marilyn, her desire to feed is almost as strong as her need for the latest gossip.
“Do you want to eat?” she asks me softly, pretending like I wasn’t an asshole to her before I left.
Lydia doesn't deserve to be treated the way I’m behaving towards her. It’s all a mixture of irritation at myself and frustration. I don’t recognize the person I’ve become over the past twenty-four hours. I’ve never felt weaker.
She keeps her eyes to the ground the way she was fucking trained to.
“I gotta show my face at the club for a few hours,” I lie, because I’ve only been back a few minutes, and it already feels like too much. How the fuck am I gonna get through this?
She nods slowly back at me, not managing to hide her disappointment, and when her hands start to shake, I get the urge to reach out and steady them.
“I’ll have one of the girls come take care of you,” I promise, heading straight for the shower to wash the sweat off my body and cool the heat that floods me whenever she’s within touching distance.
Shutting the door behind me, I pull my shirt over my head, rip off my belt and pull down my jeans. Then I turn the faucet to cold and force myself under.
The water pelts against my skin but does nothing to cool my blood. I need a release, and when my hand works its way to my cock, taking a firm grip and starting to pump, I feel disgusted in myself.
I close my eyes and remember her standing on the podium, the vision of her slowly peeling the dress from her skin, making my cock grow harder. I slow my pace, my fist stroking gently, the way I imagine hers would.
She may have had training, but I know she’d be a whole different experience to the sluts at the club.
I’m fucking sick.
Tearing my hand away, I slam my knuckles into the tiled wall in front of me. This water is nowhere near cold enough, so I turn the handle all the way left and let the icy water strike as my soaked hair falls into my eyes. I suffer the sting against my skin as punishment for the thoughts in my head.
When I come out of the shower, I head straight for my room for clean clothes. Lydia’s sitting at my table, knitting, and I try not to look at her as I pass through. When I make it to my room, I shut the door, keeping a barrier between us. I pull on some black jeans and find a clean shirt before heading back to the bathroom for my belt.
I feel Lydia’s eyes follow me every time I pass through and know I’m fucking hurting her.
I’m a cunt for it, but I don’t know how else to be around her. Picking up my belt from the floor, I make my way back into the kitchen, stretching it out and getting ready to loop it through my jeans. The tiny whimper she makes immediately has me looking in her direction, and she's up on her feet, her eyes wide with fear as they stare at the belt in my hand.
“I’m sorry.” She shakes her head, and when I look between her frightened expression and the belt in my hand, I realize what she’s thinking. Before I can put her straight, she turns her back to me, and just when I worry she’s about to run, she surprises me again. Placing both her palms flat on the wall, she stands static with her feet spreading apart.
The sight makes me shiver. But my feet continue to move forward, clenching the leather in my hand tight as I approach her.
It’s so much easier to get close to her when those big, blue eyes aren’t staring into my soul, and that’s exactly what I do. I get close to her.
I hate that she thinks I could be like them and that I would ever want to hurt her. And it scares me that I don’t know what words are gonna make her understand that I’d take a knife to my own throat before I ever let that happen.
I drop the belt to the floor and let my chest touch against her back, feeling her short, scared breaths against me. It’s my hands that are shaking as I lift them up to place them over hers and trap her against the wall. Her soft skin feels so delicate under the roughness of my palms, and something awakens inside me as I inhale her like a fucking drug.
I should step away, put that distance between us again, but I’m already addicted.
Being near to her like this gives me a calm that I'm always chasing, and she must feel it too because eventually, her breathing starts to match mine. My heart beats against her back, and my fingers tingle as they slide between hers and grip. I close my eyes and allow my lips to press into the top of her head. And I don’t know if it’s her or me that guides our hands to meet above her head so she can twist her wrists and turn to face me. The way she looks up at me through her lashes makes my heart split open, and I wanna reach into my chest, drag it out, and put it inside her so she owns it. When her eyes drop to my lips, and she starts to move towards them, I suddenly realize I’ve let things go too far.
“I need to go.” Dropping her hands from mine. I take a step back. And when she closes her eyes, it gives me time to fucking breathe. Only for a second, though, because when she opens them back up, she reaches down to the floor where the belt lies between us, picking it up and stepping forward to press it against my chest. We’re both silent as she holds it there, her eyes piercing into mine until I place my hand over hers again and take it from her.
Her lips twitch into a tragic smile before her hand slips from beneath mine, and I watch her walk away into her room. I close my eyes and breathe, quickly grabbing my cut and getting the fuck out before I give in to the temptation to go after her.
I can still feel his hands on me, even hours later when the sky outside has turned dark. Screwy doesn't have a lot to say. He’s almost impossible to read, but I understood him perfectly in those moments we shared before he left.
He wanted me to know he’d never hurt me, although all the hate he looks at me with has me wondering if he wants to. He stares at me like I cause him pain, and the last thing I want to do is make him hurt.
I think back to what he said about me leaving here and finding my family. That’s what I should focus on. I’ve been tracing my mind for more memories, trying to hear the voice that spoke my name again, but that’s not the voice I hear.
“How old?” I hear my trainer's voice in my head, but I can’t see him. It's too dark, and when I crack my eyes open, I don’t recognize where I am. I’m cold, and my bones ache.
