I hit send. That's all I can bring myself to say to her.
I truly don’t deserve her as a friend. I’ve spent a lot of time here with Dani, and my few interactions with Emily have been far from pleasant lately. Even Emily asking for this month's rent became a fight. I hate disagreeing with her because I’m unable to argue back. Her presence is so interwoven into my heart that conflict with her is like picking a battle with myself.
I don’t consider myself weak for trying to keep Emily happy, but she makes me soft in ways that no one else can. I can’t imagine a situation where I would raise a hand to her, and it physically hurts my heart to think of causing her pain. If only I could find that willpower with Dani.
Dani walks out of the bathroom, stumbling slightly. I look up as she reaches the edge of the bed and sits down. She sniffs hard, almost as if she’s been crying. She pulls her hair back in a hair-tie and looks at me with a hauntingly familiar expression.
“Are you okay, baby?” My words are soft and tender. They almost seem foreign as they roll off my tongue.
Dani looks at me with a flirty smile, making me hard. I reach for her chin, and she leans in and kisses me. I lay over her, returning the kiss as I pull my boxers down with one hand. I slip my hand between her legs and realize she came back into the room with no panties. I smirk and bite her neck. She moans.
“I want you,” she whispers, her soft thighs encasing me and pulling me into her.
I groan. My thrusts are long and deep as my lips search for the marks I’ve made on her. I try to kiss away the memories. She winces as I stumble along painful areas of her body. Many of the bruises are from a heavy hand as I fuck her, my unwavering grasp on her throat, her shoulders, or her hips. Making love is not something we do very often, so her body responds enthusiastically about it now.
She wants me to love her so badly, but all I ever do is hurt her. We are toxic together—a dangerous combination—but neither of us wants it to stop.
She moans and drops her head back in pleasure. I can see a residue of what looks like powder under her nose. In the throes of passion, I ignore what’s glaringly obvious: she might need to be high to tolerate me. Who am I to judge?