Ruined.
Harder still.
Dirty.
Scrub. Scrub. Scrub.
“Enough!”I scream the word in my head and force myself to stop.
I step out, dry myself with a towel, dry my hair, and leave the bathroom naked. I put on a sports bra and panties, then leggings, a T-shirt, and a hoodie.
The bed is wrecked, the mattress weighted by the memory of the night. The thought of Markev making me come eight times comes back, only now it’s ruined by the nightmare that followed.
Fuck.
Why does my fucked up brain always ruin everything?
I catch myself wondering where he is, and I shut that thought down immediately.
This was just sex. He can’t stay.
And yet, if he had stayed, I might not have had the nightmare at all. It feels as though he keeps the worst of it away, which is its own kind of twisted realisation.
I swear life is playing with me. The universe is having a laugh at my expense.
I strip the sheets from the bed and drop them into the basket, then dig through my bag until my fingers close around my notebook and pen.
I need this first, and then maybe I will go for a long run, until I exhaust myself completely.
I curl into the chair by the window and let the pen touch the paper, letting my hand move without direction or thought.
I don’t realise what I am doing until I stop and look down at what is staring back at me.
Eyes.
Those icy blue eyes.
Even on paper, they feel alive, as if they are looking straight through me. My chest tightens at the sight, at the strange, traitorous comfort it brings with it.
Fuck.
I can’t let myself become attached to him, not even unconsciously.
I hate what he represents, his family, the blood running through his veins, and yet all I crave is his hands, his steadiness, the way he makes the noise stop.
I grit my teeth at the thought.
What is wrong with me?
My head tips back against the cushion, and I stare at the ceiling.
I want to scream from the top of my lungs.
Why?
Why?
Why?
