Page 27 of Addicted

And he always came back.

Usually after the sun went down, sometimes later. He’d walk through that front door like he owned the world—which, I guess in his world, he did. Then we’d fall into the same pattern.

Some days we’d argue first. I’d go off on him about keeping me locked up, about not being able to see my brother, about my life falling apart outside these walls. He’d just stand there with that cold, expressionless face, letting me yell until I ran out of steam or until he decided he was done listening.

Then he’d fuck me. It was always hard, deep, and relentless. I always came more than once. I hated myself for how much my body responded to him.

Other days, I didn’t even have it in me to argue. I’d just be sitting there when he walked in, and we’d lock eyes, and that would be it. He’d cross the room, grab me, and we’d go straight to fucking.

No words. No foreplay beyond his hands on my body. Just raw, intense, mind-blowing sex that left me gasping and confused and wondering what the hell was wrong with me.

Because here’s the fucked-up part: I realized the sex was better on the days we argued first.

Something about the anger, the tension, the way we’d go at each other verbally before we went at each other physically. It made everything more intense,more electric. Like our bodies were finishing the fight our mouths had started. The realization of that made me feel sick.

Because what did it say about me that I was getting off on this twisted dynamic? That I was trapped here, held against my will, and yet my pussy got wetter when Stone and I fought first?

I was going crazy. Actually, legitimately losing my mind. I couldn’t contact anyone. Couldn’t call Ish to make sure he was okay. Couldn’t call Aurora to let her know I was alive. Couldn’t call my landlord to explain why my rent was gonna be late.

I was completely cut off from the world, trapped in this house with nothing but my thoughts and the TV and the knowledge that Stone would come back eventually to use my body however he wanted.

And the worst part?

I was starting to crave it.

Starting to listen for the sound of his car in the driveway. Starting to feel that flutter of anticipation in my stomach when I heard his key in the lock. I was fucked up. Completely and utterly fucked up.

***

One night, I got the random urge to cook a real meal. Not the quick, nothing-ass shit I’d been making. Something that actually smelled like food. Like home. I don’t even know why I did it. Maybe I was bored. Maybe I was tired of sitting around feeling like I didn’t exist unless he walked through that door.

I went through the kitchen and started pulling stuff out. Chicken, mac and cheese, cornbread mix, seasonings. Before I knew it, I was in it. Cooking like I used to back at the condo, like before all this shit.

By the time I finished, the whole house smelled different. Warmer. It almost didn’t feel like the same place.

I had just set everything out when I heard his car pull up. My stomach did that weird little flip again. I ignored it.

The door opened, and I heard his footsteps. Then he was there. He stepped into the kitchen and stopped. He just stood there, taking everything in. The table, the food... me.

“You cooking?” he asked.

His voice was different. It wasn’t cold or sharp like usual. It was lower, almost initimate.

I didn’t want to read too much into the way he sounded, so I just rolled my eyes and turned back to the counter.

“Don’t get used to it,” I said. “I was bored.”

He didn’t say anything for a second. I could feel him still looking at me, though.

“Sit down,” I added, like it wasn’t a big deal. “Before it gets cold.”

To my surprise, he actually listened. He move towards the table, pulled out a chair and sat.

I grabbed a plate, put some food on it, and slid it in front of him before fixing my own.

We didn’t say anything at first. He took a bite, and then he paused. Not in a bad way. He just stopped moving for a moment. His jaw started working slowly, like he wasn’t really focused on eating anymore. Almost like he was remembering something.

“What?” I said, looking at him sideways. “It’s nasty?”