His mouth on her neck.
Her fingers tangled in his hair.
His palms slipping beneath the hem of her dress.
My stomach churns with a toxic mix of anger and grief.
I need to obliterate the memory.
To reclaim myself.
I grip the straps of Matthew’s tank top and yank him to me.We stumble until my back hits the wall.He groans, bracing a hand against the wall beside my head, the other tightening on my waist.I devour his mouth.
Fierce.
Desperate.
Mimicking the hunger I witnessed.My hands clutch and pull.A desperate parody of intimacy.Driven by the repeating images, I break the kiss and tilt my head, baring my neck just as she had.
“Here,” I whisper.
He hesitates, eyes questioning, but obliges.His lips scorch a path up my neck.I close my eyes.The sensation is thrilling yet strangely detached.I guide his hand to my thigh, urging it higher.His fingers hover at the hem of my dress.
“It’s okay.”My voice is thick with a need that feels alien.
His touch grows more confident as his fingers slide under the fabric at my thigh.
“Yes, exactly like that,” I murmur.My voice sounds distant.Hollow.“Just like James.”
Matthew freezes.
He pulls away abruptly.
My eyes fly open.
“Shit.”I cover my mouth, mortified.
“Amy…” He reaches for me, but I flinch away.
Shame is a hot coal in my chest.I rush to the bed, stuffing the wig into my bag.
“Stop.”He gently clasps my hand, taking my handbag from me.
I can’t meet his gaze.I am burning from the inside out.“I’m nothing like him,” I say, my words thick with self-loathing.“I just thought maybe if I—” My explanation dissolves, a tangled mess in my throat.
He sighs, running a hand over his face.“God, what did he do to you?”Pity laces his tone.
I bristle.“I’ll be fine,” I snap, reaching for my bag.“I should go.”
“Hang on—”
“Thank you for everything.”
“Wait—”
“Really.”I head for the door.
He grabs my arm, turning me.
