I get to my feet, my movements stiff and awkward. I pull up my trousers, fastening them with a sharp, decisive movement. I don't look at her.
I can't.
If I look at her, I'll want to touch her again.
And that’s a door I can’t afford to open.
I run a hand through my hair, a nervous habit I thought I'd broken years ago. I feel like I’m fifteen again, all clumsy hands and a heart that’s beatingtoo fast.
I hate it.
I hear the soft rustle of fabric as she moves, and I know she's getting dressed. I risk a glance over my shoulder.
She’s sitting up, her back to me, her movements slow and deliberate. She’s refastening her bra, then she’s pulling her shirt closed, her fingers fumbling with the small, pearl buttons.
She looks small.
Vulnerable.
And I did that to her.
A wave of guilt so strong it makes me nauseous washes over me.
This is why I have rules.
To prevent this.
To prevent hurting people.
To prevent getting hurt.
I turn away, my jaw tight.
I hear her stand up, the soft tap of her shoes on the carpet. I can feel her behind me, a warm, human presence that’s both a comfort and a torment.
"Roberto," she says, her voice quiet.
I take a deep breath and turnaround.
She’s standing there, her clothes back in place, her hair a little messy, her lips still swollen from my kisses. She looks beautiful. And completely wrecked.
There’s a bruise on her neck, a dark, purple mark that’s a clear sign of what we did.
A sign of my loss of control.
My mark on her.
A wave of possessiveness, hot and sharp, surges through me, followed by a cold, hard wave of self-loathing.
I did that.
I marked her.
Like an animal.
"You're bleeding," she says, her voice soft.
I look down. There are thin, red lines on my chest and back, from her nails. I hadn't even felt them.
