Though, I can’t help the deep satisfaction that rushes through me at seeing that spark in her, even if it’s been ignited by her instincts to drive me to the brink of fucking insanity.
Regardless, my fractured soul must be spared.
I need to get the fuck out of here.
I give her a once-over, forcing a look of boredom on my face before I pass her. Our shoulders brush briefly, igniting flames across my skin.
She lets out a breathless laugh. “Everyone thinks you’re so soft and fragile, that I’m crazy and reckless...but I know you better.” That has me pausing, and she waits a beat before continuing in a faint voice, “Deep down, you’re just as spiteful as I am.”
Spiteful?When she barreled back into my life in need of rescue, I did that. When she showed up on my doorstep drenched in rain, I offered shelter. I allowed her to wreck my heart and soul until I was nothing but shattered fragments of a human being, and still, I opened my door for her when she came knocking after years of silence.
I’ve given her every piece of me, and it seems as if that’s still not enough.
Those flames across my skin spread to my head and my heart until I’m raging. If she wants my spite, I’ll give her that too.
I whip around and step in front of her. She arches her back against the kitchen counter, looking down at the place my chest now presses into her crossed arms. I grip her chin, forcing her head upward until that deep brown gaze is locked on mine.
“You say that like you want me to show you how spiteful I can be. You say that like you want to be punished by me, Elena. Is that what you want?” My voice comes out a near growl. I’m at my breaking point with her fucking games, reaching the limit of her teasing, unable to stop myself from throwing it back.
Her lips pout, eyes erupting with challenge as those long lashes flutter, and her pert nose scrunches in vexation. She’s so goddamn beautiful it fucking aches.
“Go fuck yourself.”
I smile, knowing that’s the response she offers when she’s been cornered, when her clever comebacks run dry. It’s what she does when she’s flustered and bested by her opponent. “Like you did earlier? Your toy between your legs when it was my name you were moaning?” A flash of surprise in her eyes gives her away, though she tries to quell it. “I got home early, and your room is right above mine.”
“Don’t flatter yourself. I…” Her lashes flutter as she looks around the room, anywhere but at me. “I was thinking about someone else.”
“You’re a terrible fucking liar.” I laugh. “You know how I know you’re lying, Elena?” My hand still on her chin, I turn her head again, forcing her to meet my eyes. “Because you say my name differently when you’re coming. It’s breathier. Raspier. Deep. It’s fucking primal.” I drop my mouth, allowing my breath to skate across her cheek as I purr, “You don’t say anyone else’s name like that.”
I tilt my head, my nose just brushing against hers as our mouths align. We’re close enough to share the rapid breath leaving our lips, and if I stood still, I’m positive I’d be ableto feel the tandem pounding of our racing hearts. Her gaze rapidly flutters between my lips and my eyes, and I can see the desperation building in her dark irises.
I lift my thumb, brushing it across her bottom lip, savoring the feel of its softness. “I see the way you still tremble beneath my touch.” I watch her mouth part in anticipation as I whisper, “But you’ll never feel it again.”
14
VICE
“MASTER & A HOUND” - GREGORY ALAN ISAKOV
I frownat the blinking cursor on the bright, blank screen in front of me.
I hadn’t been lying when I told August I was taking a break from writing, but somehow, having a job has actually become freeing when it comes to the pressures of putting fingers to the keyboard again. Before, it was like something I had to do. It had only been my full-time career for about a year before I stumbled into my crumbling depression, but writing is something I’ve done my entire life. It was an escape for me, a place where I was always safe, and could confidently and openly portray myself through the lives of fictional characters.
Plus, I’m self-aware enough to know that I love playing God.
I could live a thousand lives and experience every type of love story the universe had to offer—not only through the stories of others, but my own too. When it was passion and pride that fueled me, I found immense success.
But after moving back to Pacific Shores last June, it felt more like a chore. It had been my career, and I had lost it, and it seemed like the natural thing to do to get it back—to get myself back on track—was to begin writing again. Except, the words wouldn’t come. The pressure grew too heavy because it was nolonger an escape, a passion, or a safety—it was a necessity. It was as if I were being forced into it, and that, paired with my depression and poorly processed grief, was enough to drown me.
Now, if nothing else, it’s not a hard requirement for me to get by. I have a job, a reason to get up every morning and do something with myself. While my depression isn’t magically cured, and I still have a lot of shit to work out inside my brain—shit I don’t particularly feel compelled to deal with and very likely never will—I at least can pay my bills, even if I never type another word again.
And somehow, that makes me want to write.
All day while I’m at the bakery, I daydream of a thousand different storylines, developing characters and imagining all the places I can take them. But sometimes, when I sit down to try to type, that imagination gets lost. The stories exist inside my head, but when it comes to expressing emotion, I can’t seem to find the words to properly portray…feeling.
Any kind of feeling. Love. Lust. Hope. Happiness. It’s all lost to me.
Pain, guilt, and shame shine through just fine. But even the most broken characters deserve their happy ending by the time the last page is written, and I no longer feel qualified to provide them that.
