“Look at me.” His cock nudges my entrance, my legs still held wide, completely accessible to him. “I want you to watch me as I fuck you. I want you to see the pleasure me being inside you gives me. And,” he pauses, then drops a kiss onto my forehead. “I want you to go to pieces beneath me as I ride you home. You’re not going to be able to walk for a week.”
He slams into me without warning. I’m forced deep into the mattress. A broken cry leaves my throat. Sensation barreling through, too much, too good.
He thrusts hard and fast, taking no prisoners. My orgasm builds again. All I can do is experience it; I’m held in position between the bar, the bindings, and his body as he has his way.
“Ivan…I can’t take it.”
“You can and you will.”
I break again, screaming his name. The sweet pain of my orgasm clenching every muscle as he pushes harder, until he finds his own.
After, we lie together, exhausted and sated. I’m wrapped in his arms, snuggled against his chest. “You’re amazing,” I whisper. “I love you. Thank you for finding me.”
***
It’s a warm May afternoon when I decide to take a route I’ve not been on for months. As I stand across the street from my old gym, I watch the gymgoers come and go through the revolving door.
Bex’s New Youis now called Blaze Fitness. The whole place looks every inch a five-star leisure center. It only picks at the scab of my failure, what I wasn’t able to achieve.
I’m turning to leave when I see him—Ivan’s walking down the stairs, chatting with a woman in a business suit. They shake hands and walk off.
The hope I’ve been floating on sinks like a stone in the lake so fast, my knees buckle. I grab the strap of my bag, as my chest cinches tight.
I tell myself it’s nothing, a coincidence.
But the fear rages back, cold and vicious, the same way it did the day Terry packed his bags and told me I wasn’t enough.
Ivan lied to me.
He climbs into his waiting car without looking back. It pulls out into the London traffic. I swallow hard, nausea rising in my throat fast.
The past is repeating itself. He isn’t who he said he was. He used me until he got what he wanted. My gym.
Chapter thirty-eight
Ivan
Amy isn’t answering her phone. I haven’t heard from her since yesterday. She’d texted me in the evening, canceling our plans. She had a headache. A knot of worry formed in my stomach; it’s been twisted ever since.
Most nights we spend together; this silence where she should be feels wrong, like something important is missing. My offer to go round and look after her was dismissed with a simple single-word text message.No.The full stop felt like a slammed door.
I’m on my sofa in my boxers, nursing a bottle of beer. The leather is cool against my skin. My cell sits on the arm of the chair, mocking me. A film is playing on my panoramic television: men with guns running around deserted streets, and every so often, someone blows someone else to pieces.
The explosions flash across the screen, but all I hear are my own accusing thoughts. Amy and her silence are all I can think about.
Her phone rings out when I try to call her again, and raw heat flushes in my throat. Something’s wrong; I can feel it bone deep. But she’s choosing not to tell me what it is. I can’t fix something when I don’t know what the fucking issue is.
This woman has me perplexed. Jealousy, fear, protectiveness, all the shit I’ve never had to deal with, slam into one another until I can’t sit still. People normally bend to my will?if a request is made, it’s executed on my schedule.
Not with Amy Corrigan.
She says my name, and I run after her like a pet dog, desperate for praise for good behavior. Her absence hurts in places I never knew existed, and now, I’m waiting like an idiot for her next instruction.
Another beer later, I decide to take matters into my own hands and call myself a taxi. I pull on my jeans with a black cashmere sweater. After a glance in the mirror, I notice my hair is messy and bags are starting to form under my eyes. Tonight is certainly not my best look, but I’m not expecting a welcome with open arms after whatever the hell this is. I want answers to the questions burning on my tongue.
The journey through the city is slow. Cars and vans cram the roads, making progress pitiful. It gives me plenty of time to consider what I want to say. What I need to ask her. My knee bounces the whole ride; I can’t make it stop. My hand keeps drifting to the keys in my pocket I already know I have.
The taxi stops outside her apartment. Her light’s on—she’s home. I hand the driver a fifty-pound note and step out onto the pavement.
