“You’re not coming?”
He pauses. Doesn’t turn around.
“If I get in that car with you right now, I won’t be able to control myself.” His voice is rough, on the verge of breaking. “I’m giving you time. When you can admit what you want—to yourself and to me—I’ll be ready.”
The door opens. Closes.
He’s gone, leaving me alone.
With my legs shaking and the brand new dress pretty much ruined, I take in the aftermath. At the soaked tablecloth, the puddle on the floor surrounded by broken dishes and remnants of food. The traces of what I’ve done, what I let happen, are everywhere.
Shaking my head, I walk up to the mirror hanging by the door. I have to make myself presentable. The face staring back at me belongs to a stranger. Lips swollen. Eyes glazed. Hickeys blooming on my breasts where his mouth marked me.
I look thoroughly fucked.
What’s horrifying is that I’ve never had this look before. No other man has ever made me come this hard. Made me feel this way. Made me crave him this much, despite knowing it’s wrong.
A knock at the door startles me. Must be the guard Elio mentioned.
“Just a minute,” I shout, pulling the red straps back over my shoulders and running my fingers through my messy hair. It’s as good as I can manage in the current situation.
I take a step towards the door then freeze. The restaurant has exits. A bathroom window. A dining room full of people who would help if I screamed.
I could run.
Right now. This second. Push past the guard. Sprint through the restaurant. Call for help.
I look at the exit. At freedom.
Then I open the door and follow the guard who normally stands by my bedroom door to the car.
The drive back is silent.
The guard drives. I sit in the back where Elio sat, his cologne still faint on the leather. Palermo slides past the windows again. The cathedral. The café. My old apartment.
All of it within reach.
All of it a life I’m choosing not to return to.
My mind runs through every choice I made today.
What the fuck is wrong with you, Murphy?
Twice now I have let him touch me, even though I knew I shouldn’t. The courtyard and the restaurant. Both times he walked away hard, visibly suffering, denying himself. And both times he proved my body wanted what my mouth wouldn’t admit.
If this were just about him taking what he wanted, he’d have fucked me by now. Taken what I wasn’t willing to give.
Instead he’s torturing himself. Waiting for something I’m terrified to give.
The truth.
That I want this. Wanthim. Want to stop hiding behind weak protests while my body screams yes.
My hand presses against the cold window.
When I get back to my room, twelve identical red dresses hang in the open wardrobe.
20
