My body starts to shake with fatigue, holding myself up on weak, exhausted limbs, keeping myself from falling forward with each thrust of his hips. I’m so full. Then so empty. And it is brutal love-making that hurts in the best mind-numbing way.
When he releases his death grip on my hair, I nearly collapse into the water, but he threads a hand around my waist, holding me up. My knees slide around the bathtub when he presses his chest to my back, but he holds me to him. Feeding his other hand through my fingers, he braces himself.
Then he takes me again, his virile body sliding over me, his hips bucking into me, his fingers squeezing mine as he starts to tense up.
I come apart just like my life has, trembling as wave upon wave of blinding pleasure lurches through me.
As I mewl through my orgasm, he speeds up further for a few more puncturing thrusts. Holding himself deep, he comes into my clenching pussy, using me to pump every drop of cum from him.
He stills, and all I hear are his heavy breaths.
Tears hang in my eyes. My body aches from being taken so hard. But then he peppers kisses along the nape of my neck. A chaste sensation that whispers an apology. An apology for what, I don’t know. I wanted it like that. Hard and overwhelming. “You’re not alone. Neither of you. I’m going to take care of you. You just have to fucking let me.”
His words from when we were kids come crashing back.
“It’s all good anyway. I got this, baby. I’m going to take care of you. I actually got what I wanted and I’m never fucking letting you or him go.”
I didn’t listen to him then. If I had, If I had truly believed he could take care of things, I wouldn’t have left. We wouldn’t have lost so many years together. . . This time, I’m going to listen to him. Going to believe in him.
Shoshanna
Seventeen years old.
No.
My room has been completely upturned. Every drawer is out, stacked neatly in the corner, all their contents organised beside them. Every book is piled up on my bed. Every bag is open and emptied on to the mattress. My clothes are all neatly folded in a suitcase. And my dad. . . he is sitting on the edge of my grey and purple sheets, flicking through my diary with a pained expression etched onto his face.
He lifts his head, brown eyes full of disappointment and disgust, finding me standing in the doorway. I drop my school bag with a thud, my breath suddenly shallow. Dad is a relatively stoic man, but today his disdain soars through my room.
“What are you doing?” I say, my voice like a mouse’s squeak. My body, unable to move, stays frozen with utter dread.
“I had no idea,” he mutters, slowly shaking his head.
I look at the diary. At the page that is open. “No.”
He exhales through his nose, his dark brows weaving with anger. “It’s not my fault,” he declares. “Your mother had mental health issues. I really shouldn’t be at all surprised that you do too.”
Oh God.I fight to breathe. “Dad.”
“But I just had no idea.” He waves the diary in his hand, laughing once with derision. It’s not nice, and I feel a roll of terror whirl through me. “I thought my girls were angels.”
Bile moves up my throat, seemingly affected by the surrounding energy. It is thick with guilt and revulsion.
Looking at the diary, he says, “I guessed you might have a boyfriend, but I never knew. . .”
I stare at the book, wanting to lunge for it, rip it from his hands and swear at him for invading my privacy - our privacy, mine and Bronson’s - but we are past that point now.
It is too late.
“Is this all true? Or is it fiction? A game you play with him?” he asks, glancing back at the entry that should have never made it to print. I feel like a colossal fool for writing such a thing - a fool who has condemned herself.
Less than a fool.
Naive.
Ignorant.
Swallowing hard, I force myself to speak. “It’s fiction.” My face is suddenly cold. My cheeks feel numb. “I made it all up.”