Especially after I made the mistake of telling him about my past.
I’d woken up from a nightmare after falling asleep at his place one night—until then, since I’d never spent the night with anyone, I hadn’t realized that when I had a nightmare, I spoke and screamed out loud. When he asked me what was wrong, I was shaken up and vulnerable, and I told him what had happened to me six years ago.
Before my admission, our sex life hadn’t been all that good, but after he found out I had been raped and forced to have an abortion, it only got worse.
Missionary.
Slowly.
Gently.
And God forbid I attempt to suck his dick.
I once tried to get him to push my head down, and he told me I was broken.
“Brielle, I think you should see a therapist,” Theo murmurs.
And I think you should learn how to fuck a woman properly … but here we are.
Grabbing the towel closest to me, I bring it up to my face and scream into it. Even with the material muffling the sound, I’m sure he can hear my frustration out there.
“Brielle!” Theo bangs on the door. “Are you okay?”
“No!” I yell, sliding my heels onto my feet and then unlocking the door. “I’m not okay. I’m horny and unsatisfied, and I’ve had enough of you treating me like I’m a broken, fragile little thing!”
I stare at him, wishing I could feel something, anything.
He’s not wrong.
I am broken.
But I thought maybe Theo could help fix me. He’s sweet and loyal and so damn considerate. He’s everything I’m supposed to want, yet I still feel this void inside me.
“I can’t do this anymore,” I choke out. “I think you’re a great guy, but you’re not the guy for me.”
“Because I won’t hit you in bed?” he asks, a mixture of confusion and concern written all over his features.
“No.” I shake my head. “Because … because …”
“Brielle …” He steps toward me, but I take a step back. “Are you really going to sabotage everything we have when you can’t even tell me what’s wrong?”
I stare at him for several seconds, trying to put into words what’s going through my head, but nothing comes out.
Because Theodore DeSantis, the owner of DeSantis Investing—a thirty-six-year-old man who owns his own condo, has a great relationship with his parents and siblings, buys me flowers and chocolates, and takes me out on romantic dinners—is perfect.
But I’m not.
“You’re a whore …”
“… you’re now damaged goods.”
I shake myself from my thoughts, refusing to let Andrey get into my head.
He’s been dead for six years—and haunting me for just as long.
“It’s not you,” I tell Theo. “It’s me.”
I walk past him and scoop my purse off the counter.
