‘I didn’t know you were such a fatalist. When did that happen?’ I shake my head, too weary to even defend myself. ‘Ask her—you bring it up. It’s not like you to be such a pussy, is all I’m saying.’
‘Yeah, well, this is where divorce leaves you.’
‘No, this is where Belle left you. Move the fuck on, man!’
Easier said than done though.
‘And there’s one thing for sure. If she’s not asking those kinds of questions, it’s because she’s hiding shit of her own.’
And truthfully, that’s what scares me the most.
Chapter Twenty-One
DAN
Weekends seem to be our thing. Dinner Friday night. Saturday morning in bed. Sunday Brunch, if I’m lucky, before she leaves on Sunday night. And that’s where we are right now. On the brink of another week we’re in bed. Her body is a soft weight against me, knees fitted behind knees with my possessive arm slung across her waist. We’re not sleeping. In fact, we’ve barely spoken since we’d fucked. It’s strange, but it’s not an uncomfortable silence. It feels as natural as breathing having her in my arms. She’d said she loved me last time we fucked, but I don’t think that heavy a declaration can be valid at that point. I don’t know how it is for women, but I can be pretty effusive in my love for all kinds of things right after I’ve come.
As Louise begins to fidget in my arms, I can’t help but think she’s building up to something that’s weighing on her mind. I decide to help her along.
‘Spit it out,’ I drawl, tightening my grip on her. ‘My brain’s never at its best for a while after I’ve woken up. Or after I’ve come.’ I draw a languid finger down her arm, making her shiver. ‘Words of small syllables,’ I now whisper. ‘Make it easy for me.’ I keep my words as unhurried as my movements as I stretch out along the bed.
‘This can’t be normal, can it? Do you think I’m... normal?’
‘It’s a relative term, darling, and—’
She pushes my arms away, sitting upright, the look in her eye one of combat. ‘This can’t be normal,’ she spits, daring me to deny her words. ‘Being spanked, being fucked with a brush. Who enjoys that?’
She’s not looking for an answer. Just an argument, for some reason. ‘You’re a pussycat.’ Rolling onto my back, I slide a hand beneath my head. I close my eyes with a sigh before speaking again. ‘There’s nothing wrong with you. Besides, you haven’t the capacity to be truly hurt.’ I’m thinking of canes, especially. That she isn’t truly a pain whore is more than fine by me. These are thoughts I’ll keep to myself today.
‘I shouldn’twantto be hurt. I shouldn’t want this.’
I can’t be sure if her words are aimed at me, but they cut all the same.She shouldn’t want me? Us? This?
‘And if I’d been born without a dick, you’d be sleeping with a lesbian.’
‘Well, there’s no need to be so... crass.’
‘And there’s no need for you to keep beating yourself. Not when you have me nearby.’ My smile is feral. I mean it to be—for distraction, if nothing else. ‘You’ve got to be the biggest masochist out there.’ In a certain sense.
‘That’s not helpful.’ I can see she’s struggling not to cry as she pulls the bedding up to her chin.
I want to pull her into my arms, but something tells me it’s the wrong thing to do. Instead, I place my hand on her hers, stilling her. ‘Are you going to tell me what this is about? Why now?’
‘I don’t know,’ she replies, her words bubbling. ‘It’s just every now and then, I know I shouldn’t. Not like this.’
‘Shouldn’t fuck?’
‘It’s not that. It’s the bits between.’
‘When we have dinner? Eat brunch? When I eat you out?’ I keep my voice light, trying to make her laugh. To no avail.
‘How? How can I like it?’
‘Because I’m very good at it and, well, just look at me. I’m what your friend would call a bit of a sort.’
‘You’re what my therapist would call an abuser.’
Slowly, I sit up straight, my voice taking on a cold edge. ‘I suggest you tread carefully. Think very clearly about what you say next.’ Is she trying to offend me? Lashing out? Whatever her reason, I take this very seriously.
