He doesn’t ask permission, either. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like consent isn’t important. But knowing that at least with him, there’s just one word and one word alone that would stop him is…well…
…Alothotter than it should be.
There’s nothing romantic or sweet with him. No softness. He’s all sharp edges and hard corners. Pure violence and darkness.
And what I’ve come to understand through all this insanity is thatI think I might crave that.
I want his edges. I want him unhinged and unmerciful. I want him to completely dominate and overpower me.
I don’t feel subjugated in that headspace.
I feel freer than I ever have.
But again, perspective. Because as addictive as that feeling is, and as “fine” as I tell myself I could be with our relationship remaining what it’s been so far…
That’s not true.
It’s notjustthat I get off on brutal, unhinged sex.
I want everything else that comeswithsex, violent or otherwise.
I wish I was one of those girls who can just casually have sex and then get on with the rest of her day. But I’m not. I need more.
And the problem is, I’m not so sure that would ever happen with Vaughn… "fine, we're a we" notwithstanding.
It makes me feel trapped. Because I genuinely have no idea where else I’d ever find the same cathartic release that his brand of deranged sex brings me. I also don’twantto find it anywhere else, because like it or not, and as pathetic as it might sound…
I like him.
A lot.
More than I have any right or reason to.
Before, it was a slow trickle that I was trying to hold back. But the more time I spend with him, the faster that trickle has turned into a full-blown leak in the dam. And since he kissed me for the first time in France, and thenagain, at the Mercury the other night…
I don’t even know if there’s any dam left to repair. Ironically, that's why I've been trying to keep my distance.
Because right now, the only way Vaughn and I seem to connect in any meaningful way is through our unhinged sexcapades.
And I need more than that.
“Hey stranger.”
In the kitchen, I glance up from my coffee and grin when I see Roman walking in. Then my brows shoot up as I clock his appearance properly.
“Woooow,” I gasp.
Roman typically wears a jacket and dress shirt, no tie, the top button or two undone. Well, and pants.
Today, he’s in astunningcharcoal gray suit with a French-cut shirt buttoned up all the way, a matching gray silk tie, tie-clip,cufflinks, and what I think is a brand-new Rolex on his wrist.
His typical beard scruff is trimmed, and his hair is neatly slicked back.
“Rico Suave!” I giggle. “What’s the occasion?”
Roman grins, futzing with his cufflinks as he walks over to the coffee machine.
“I’ve got an important sit-down with the Sicilians today to hammer out a neutral zone between territories in Queens.”
