“Wow,” I respond in a monotone. “I feel so special.”
His gaze moves hungrily up and down my body. His eyes are too bright, expression too eager. When he reaches for me, I shake my head and step out of my skirt. It only takes a second for him to figure it out.
“Baby,” he sighs, “I thought we’d do more than that this time.”
“Don’t call me ‘baby.’ Do you want me to stay or not?”
He’s on his knees within seconds, hands on my hips. I watch the top of his head at first, the shaggy dark strands falling messily over his face. When he looks up at me, I can almost pretend the color of his eyes is warm whiskey.
Almost.
Closing my eyes, I do what I always do. I try to be normal. I tell myself it feels good. As good as it feels when I touch myself. As good as it feels when I pretend my fingers are Easton’s.
But for a long moment, I feel nothing.
No pleasure, no disgust.
I’m a drop of water in a motionless ocean. Trapped by the sea of stillness encasing me. I listen to the sound of my steady breathing. Then the loud beat of my heart.
Thump, thump, thump.
Soon, that’s all there is.
Thump, thump, thump.
Persistent and grating, nails against glass.
Relax.
It pounds louder.
Shut up.
It beats faster.
Get out of my head.
The rhythm thrashes inside me until my stomach is in knots.
Stop thinking.
I asked him to do this—
It feels good.
His grip is too sweaty—
I like it.
His hands are on my ass—
It’s what people do.
I’m not the one on my knees—
I’m not broken.
The grey walls around me blend and swirl, swirl and blend—
