But the second I moved, he would wake up.
And we’d have to talk. I’d have to admit that I had left the door unlocked and that it was no longer a one-time thing and that he was starting to get under my skin.
And my moans were not forgiveness.
Even thinking about the situation he’d put us in made me want to suffocate him under the duvet. But the way he’d manhandled me last night, I knew I had no chance.
The worst part?If he did vanish from my life, I’d be gutted.
Though I already was because we couldn’t be what we were — lust-filled, desperate.
I’d let myself daydream a little; I’d let myself want a public date.
He’d wanted me to text him. Not nudes. Words.
Like he wanted us to form some kind of emotional attachment.If we had done that over the last two months, where would I be now? Would he have told me?
Would I be more than a little bit in love? Would I be heartbroken?
Maybe I already was.
It was a quiet thought. In Hungarian.
Like I somehow wanted to keep it a secret from myself. I wasn’t sure when my thoughts stopped being in Hungarian and started being English. Maybe in secondary school, when my native tongue began to rot in my mouth, slowly, softly.
I’d taken him as a tie to my family, a mysterious tie with a huge cock who gave multiple orgasms.
No part of my soul thought he had done this maliciously. We had both fallen into this without expectation. It had surprised and consumed us both.
And I needed to escape it.
I tried to pull myself out of his grip, but he pulled me tighter in his sleep, like a king cobra, suffocating me.
This was his house. Last night, he’d told me this was his room. I hadn’t unpacked because I’d hardly had time, but…would his clothes be in the wardrobe?He’d invited me — trusted me — with the most personal space he had.
Alone.
After he’d thrown his whole‘this is a wedding, and oops we’re family now’stunt, he was lucky that I hadn’t packed scissors and taken them to all of his stereotypical bad boy dark clothing.
I’d been too preoccupied with locking or unlocking the door.
I reached over to the bedside table beside me. It was made of simple, dark wood that matched the headboard. On it lay a coaster and a lamp.
So normal and domestic.
In the drawer were condoms, tablets, a nail file, and two books. One was on mental healing — which I had not expected — the other was a fantasy novel. They both had bookmarks nestled deep within the pages, and I flicked through them, careful not to lose his place. His non-fiction chapter was about self-compassion and pressure. I tried to look over my shoulder at him. He always carried arrogance in spades — sexual, looks, speed.
He sighed behind me and pulled me closer again, his hand stroking my bare stomach.
“Morning,” he said into my neck, pressing a kiss there.
My neck was my ultimate weakness. I clenched at the shiver down my spine.
“Morning,” I said, voice tight.
I couldn’t be angry about sleeping with him last night.That was my stupid decision.
But I could remain pissed about everything else.
