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Like this weak, wretched, pitiful mess, an outcome of abuse, and everything that she didn’t need.

I was not what she needed. Not when I could barely string two coherent thoughts together.

So, I stopped.

Drank another shot or two of my vodka and stared out in the starless sky through my window.

The dark blue sky gradually turned black, then grey, then pale blue, streaks of yellow peeking through until it was morning again.

After hours of numbness, of constant ache buzzing through the entirety of my body, it was quiet again. The moment my eyes found hers, my heartbeat steadied.

The need to go to her—to touch her, to make sure she is real—rattles through my bones with terrifying force.

Last night I couldn’t tell what was real and what wasn’t, but now I know that she is my only reality.

I tried to stay away from her as long as alcohol was in my system, but now that I’m sober, my brain cannot stop replaying explicit scenes from yesterday.

I had her arse in my hands; I was kneading it after giving her a well-deserved spanking and an orgasm.

My crotch had a wet spot and I might’ve inhaled her scent an unhealthy amount of time once I got home.

Sue me for being a creep, but addicts don’t choose recovery when they’ve already found heaven in the poison.

She could hit me, cut me, slice me open but the blasphemy to leave me?

That’s just absurd and I won’t stand for it.

Speaking of absurd, I open the message app and text her.

ME: Still angry?

A harmless little message.

Her phone chimes and she picks it up, taking a moment to read and swivels her head in my direction, an adorable scowl marring her face.

Fuck, I needed this.

ME: Just as angry as you were horny yesterday?

Read.

ME: Fun fact: Keeping your juices on my pants is considered unhygenic. I disagree.

She reads, glares in my direction making a disgusted face but doesn’t reply.

ME: Did you know women can come more times than a man?

I could give you multiple orgasms, just saying.

Read again.

ME: No?

Read.

ME: So you're fine with riding my dick behind closed doors, but talking to me in public is where you draw the line?

Read! Again!