The words are like an ice pick in my stomach. He’s never spoken like that before. He’s always been warm, a little dark, a little threatening, maybe. But warm.
I open my mouth, try to tell him that I’m just not hungry, but I can’t seem to get the words out.
“Answer me,” he snaps.
I shake my head wordlessly, incapable of speaking even though I’m convinced my silence is making him furious.
He grabs me, yanks me over his lap, and before I’ve even had time to register his warmth surrounding me, his arms holding metoo tight, too sure, he pries open my mouth with two fingers, and with the other he shovels in a heaping forkful of mashed potatoes.
Then he clamps his hand over my mouth and nose, until I swallow.
He’s force-feeding me.
I want to tell him it’s not necessary, all he had to do was ask me to eat and I would have done it. But I can’t speak. This time, it’s not my fault. He won’t let me.
The moment I’ve swallowed the food, he pries open my mouth again, and shoves another heaping forkful of potato and turkey into me.
He doesn’t stop until the plate is nearly clean. My jaw hurts, my stomach hurts, the control he has over my breath makes me nauseous and dizzy, but worst of all, something splinters in me.
I can’t help it. My eyes start to prick, and soon he and the entire room are blotted out as tears flow freely down my cheeks.
I’ve been crying for a while when he realizes it. He puts down the fork and stares at me. The anger in his face drains, leaving something unreadable.
I keep sobbing. I can’t help it. The last time I actually cried, I was nine, trying to learn how to ride a bike. I fell, and Mama ran to me, picked me up and held me in her arms. I felt so safe and loved as I cried.
Damien is holding me in his arms, but I feel neither safe nor loved.
Still, the floodgates have opened, and I can’t figure out how to close them again. I’m aware of Damien’s gaze boring into me, and I can tell he’s hesitating.
Hesitating to force-feed me again? To walk away? To… comfort me?
No, that would be ridiculous.
The one thing I don’t expect is what happens next.
His body tightens around me, one hand finding my wrists and pinning them together, the other fisting my hair, pulling on it, angling my face back. Then his burning lips claim mine, his tongue forcing its way in, his breath hot against my cheek.
I don’t react, partly from shock, partly from ignorance. I’ve never kissed anyone before. I don’t even know how to begin.
With Ben, there were no kisses. Just his hands, his needs. I floated through it like the jellyfish I am. Same with the other two men whose fingers have touched me.
But this is nothing like that. After the first moment of shock has passed, after my jaw has stopped throbbing… I suddenly realize Idowant the kiss.
His lips conquer the last remnants of my resistance. In that moment, I decide that, no matter how fucked up it is, I want it. I want the kiss. I want his hands on me. I want him to keep holding me like this forever.
Too soon, though, he pulls away. Shoving me abruptly back onto the couch, he grabs the tray and leaves.
The pain I feel as he shuts the door behind him is sharp, gutting.
What’s wrong with me? Why couldn’t I show him I wanted it? Why didn’t I resist? Why did he leave me alone?
He just force-fed me, I can feel the bruise forming on my jaw, and yet my thoughts spiral in an entirely different direction.
Maybe he hates me. Maybe this kiss meant nothing. Maybe he thinks I’m pathetic.
Or maybe he thought I didn’t want it. Maybe I should have kissed him back.
Somehow, my mind latches itself onto that thought.
