He probably mistakes my wetness for blood. The room is pitch-dark and so he can’t see, but he’s never ever been remotely interested in sex while I’m on my period. Actually acted grossed out once in our early days where I suggested we just do it in the shower. Why now?
He’s trying to get me off. He hasn’t gotten me off in almost a year despite using me to get himself off whenever he feels like it. I go along because it doesn’t typically last long and it shuts him up, but he isn’t giving up this time. I’m fairly sure he’s doing it so Killian will hear us and think he’s a stud, a stud who’s making me happy sexually.
It goes on and on and I’m repulsed. Repulsed at the sound of the bed creaking, knowing it’s got to be audible in the living room, knowing Ray’s intentionally moving in a way to make the bed make noise. But more than that, it doesn’t feel good. Ray used to know what he was doing with my body, he used to be good at it, but either he can’t be bothered to put in any effort, or I’m just so repulsed by him that it makes no difference. Wanting it over, I finally fake it soundlessly with an exaggerated trembling of my body and a gusty exhale. I go lax so he’ll think I orgasmed.
He rolls onto me, “Get it out,” he whispers, and it takes a beat for me to realize he’s talking about a tampon.
I shake my head.
“I’m good. I was at the tail – uh – end.”
He thrusts into me with a groan. I wince as I’m not nearly wet enough, and no more than two dozen strokes later with a too-loud groan, he’s done.
He’s heavy on me. He kisses me, whispering, “Love you, babe,” and then he rolls away.
I go to the bathroom, quietly and when I’m back, he’s already snoring.
I lay awake half the night in my tiny one-bedroom apartment, thinking about Killian Coulter lying on the sofa, likely with his shirt off. Maybe even his jeans. And wondering if he heard that.
If Ray hadn’t been beside me I could’ve made myself come with my fingers between my legs and just that vision of him lying there on my couch in my head. I half-ponder going to the bathroom and touching myself in there. But I feel gross right now because again, I endured crummy sex just to avoid an argument.
When I finally close my eyes I chastise myself for denying myself even that little bit of joy.
I have to make a change.
I have to.
I’ve been telling myself this for too long, doing nothing about it.
Salty tears slide out despite my closed eyes.
***
When my six thirty alarm wakes me, Ray’s leg is thrown across me and he’s snoring up a good impersonation of a sawmill.
I carefully pry myself away and tiptoe to the bathroom, which is across from the bedroom. After my hot shower, while drying off, I feel a stab of regret. I should’ve worn a shower cap and skipped a shampoo, using dry shampoo instead. I’m obviously on Old Violet autopilot, mindlessly lathering up my wet hair like I used to do every morning. I won’t be able to blow dry my hair without making enough noise to disturb both Ray and Killian in my small place.
I typically wash my hair at night to keep things simple nowadays, but the odd occasion I’ll do it in the morning and dry it straight in the kitchen because my big round brush dryer isn’t too loud and works pretty fast considering how much hair I have. It doesn’t typically wake him like my regular dryer. But I’m not going to do that today and disturb our houseguest who is practically in the kitchen since there are no walls separating the kitchen and dining area from my living space.
I spend extra time towel drying in order to get as much of the wet out of my hair as possible.
I know better than to make noise when Ray is sleeping. He’ll wake up miserable and holler at me for it. I check the temperature on my phone and wince. It’s cold today. We’re just into October but it’s unseasonably cold, so I know my hair will be frozen by the time I get to work. I’ll have to tuck as much of it as possible under a hat. I slip into the hall in just my towel when I come face to face with a shirtless, sockless, sleepy, sexy Killian.
Shit. Why didn’t I bring my clothes to get dressed in with me? Probably because I got about all of about three and a half hours of sleep and I’m not firing on all cylinders.
I freeze in my tracks and spectacularly fail in my efforts to not ogle his muscled arms and torso as well as the little happy trail of dark hair that disappears into the waistband of his jeans. His jeans are only zipped, not buttoned, and my eyes are frozen on the sculpted V.