Forever Us

by C C Monroe

  I promised I would fight a battle for forever if it meant I got to keep her, but I lost that battle. I gave up. No longer strong enough to face the truth, nor sturdy enough to carry the burdens as my own. I begged her many times to leave her world on my shoulders, to weigh me down so she could be light and without any pain, but it didn’t work. Lana didn’t let me save her; she didn’t even let me be her hero.

  I approach her, her image assaulting my eyes and making them wet the closer I get. Aching to touch her, I resist, dying to tell her I love her, but I mute myself. Instead, I go with blinding myself with the image of Lana one last time as mine. Never will I love again, not even if I could. She was it for me, the ultimate, and now I lost her. You cannot find a better treasure after you have touched pure gold.

  I band my arm around her waist, bringing her petite, womanly, curved back to my stomach. The contrast of my huge, broad body keeping her wrapped in my arms is a picture worth a thousand words, but if people really knew the artist, they would see she is the one who holds us together, she is the dominant, and here I am the weak submissive.

  Lana not only lost herself in the wreckage, but she destroyed me alongside her.

  My head pounds as my eyes flutter open. The room is still dark, but I see the curtains have been drawn together and the light from the sun hides behind them, trying to get in. I feel like death, drained emotionally and physically. I remember falling asleep in Kingston’s arms, the last moment of feeling together. I dreamed of him all night. Called, screamed, begged for him in my nightmares. Watching his retreating back in my dreams sliced me open from the inside out, my heart falling out and dragging behind him as he went.

  The words he said last night did this to me, but I don’t blame him, nor do I disagree with what he said. I have been a shell of myself, dragging us down, and had the roles been reversed, I would not be here right now. Jumping ship would have been my instinct, but I sit here obstructing our chance to move on, all selfish and without regard for the damage I am causing myself and my family.

  I hold the cards, and now I know I have to fold and give in. I see my phone on the nightstand, the cold bed empty with only me in it. I reach for it to check the time. I see it’s nearing nine, which means Prince has probably already woken up. I don’t hear any noise, which has me in instantly worried. I slide out of bed and grab my robe, hoping and praying Kingston didn’t make good on his words just yet. He said he would take our son. What if he did? I open the door and instantly smell food, the grease of bacon waking me up and making my stomach growl.

  Not a lick of alcohol is in my system, but I feel hung-over. Emotionally hung-over. I hear papers rustling, and my heart settles as I descend the stairs, following the noise. My hair is a wispy mess on my head, my body drowning in my nightie, my body frail from the weight loss, and my eyes are sure to be sunken in from the tears and constant restless sleep.

  Rounding the corner at the bottom of our stairs, I step into the kitchen. My stomach flutters and my heart beats again as my eyes grow wet at the sight. Kingston sits reading the paper, dressed in only black sweats and his beloved RVCA backward snapback. He always puts that on, even when he’s lounging around the house and unready for the day. It’s him; it’s part of what makes him unique—what makes him mine. Next to him, in his little rocking chair with an attached musical mobile, the sounds of “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” plays as Prince watches in wonderment, his little smile adorning his chubby face. When he makes a noise, Kings looks over at him and coos, lifting the his little foot to his mouth and blowing raspberries.

  An urgency overtakes me, consumes me from the inside out to never lose this. Without words, he did more than what they could’ve in that simple moment with our child. The way his tattooed body touched the bare skin of our son, like a protector to the innocent, and the way he goes from alpha to the most generous, softhearted teddy bear to walk this earth, I snap.

  “I’ll do it. I’ll go to therapy.” I rush out the words, bringing his attention to me. My presence shocks him at first before his features soften and he assesses me.

  Last night, terrible things were said, and I’m sure he thought I was going to wake up pissed and ready to go to war, but I’m tired. I’m tired of being the victim, of living a life where I don’t even know who I am anymore.

  The divine nature to save my family and keep the other part of my soul as mine outweighs that, completely shatters any other thing I may be feeling.

  “What?” He eyes me over, the paper in his hand lowering as he puts it on the table with ease. I don’t know what else to say, afraid I may mess it up, so I repeat myself.

  “I want to go to therapy. Please, don’t leave me,” I beg, unashamed.

  “Lana, stop.” He puts his hand up, shutting me out as my eyes start to glaze over. The burn is still present from all the tears I cried last night.

  “No, please listen, King—”

  “Stop.” He stands, lifting Prince from his bassinet. I begin to panic, knowing he’s leaving me and not even giving me a chance to try and plead my case.

  “Kings, please.” I shiver, suddenly cold, grabbing at his arm as he moves around me.

  “I’m going to go put him down for a nap. I don’t want him down here if we’re going to talk about this, in case things get heated.” Instantly, I relax as I loosen my hold on him. I wait anxiously, pacing the kitchen and waiting for him to come back. When he does, he plops back down in his seat, looking irritated and nowhere near ready to believe anything I say. Kingston isn’t going to believe me, nor is he going to listen unless I get myself inside him like I usually do. I have to pull out all the cards if he’s going to hear me out for even a second.

  “Baby...” I trail off on a whisper, calling to him with a single tear rolling down my cheek.

  He drops his head and cries in pain, “Fuck, Lana.”

  I use it, use our kryptonite. I know it was a cheap shot and a move I shouldn’t use at a time like this, but I’ve gone mad with desperation. I need to hold on to him for a little while longer. Call me sick; call me twisted and fucked up. All those are true, but what else is true is that Kingston is mine, and the thought of losing him is not something I can do.

  “Baby, I love you and I’m sorry. I know I’m sick, and I’ll do whatever to make you happy, to keep us together.”

  He watches me with guarded eyes as I get to him. I come to stand beside him, and instantly I smell him, the man I’ve loved for years. I’ve been his for so long that he has branded me, his smell so potent and engraved into my senses so deep I can even taste it.

  “You can’t do this, Lana. You can’t tell me what I want to hear, cripple me, and then break me all over again. I’m tired of it.” He shakes his head and leans back in his chair, throwing his head back. There is enough room between him and the table for me to sit, so I do just that. Lifting my leg, I sit astride his lap, straddling him so I can keep the upper hand.

  I grab his face in my hands, the overnight scruff on his chiseled jaw scraping against my delicate palms. I shiver, liking the small amount of friction.

  “You once said to me that you would fight a thousand forevers just to spend one with me. This is our forever, baby. I know that now.” I use his words that never once left my heart. He whimpers like a wounded dog, his brows drawing in and his jaw clenching under my hands.

  “Lana, I did, and you fucking turned me inside out. You let me bleed dry.” He shakes his head and I match it, shaking mine and hushing him.

  “Shh, no, baby, I didn’t. I promise I didn’t. Please let me make it up to you. I will go to therapy. I will bleed with you and bare my soul if it means you will give me one last chance.” The cruel torture that I have put him through is sickening and I see it now more than ever.

  I’m turning off my blinders, focusing on something else other than my own demons. Being selfless in this moment is showing me just how fucking selfish I’ve been—and it’s disturbing. Who I am hates who I’ve been. And now, in the early morning,
in the kitchen of what looks to be a picture-perfect home on the outside, I sit in the broken inside, shuddering and dwindling down the road of discovery. I have discovered I’ve been a terrible queen to my all-encompassing, passionate, selfless, giving, and loving king.

  Checkmate. Queen needs to fight for her king.

  “How can I trust what you’re saying, Lana? You’ve said countless times what I die to hear, and once you settle, you turn it all around and fall back into motion and distance yourself from me.”

  His words hurt, but I let him have that shot at me. Because, well, if the shoe fits.

  “Because, I want to fight a thousand forevers for you.”

  “Damn it, baby,” he curses, dropping his eyes to my chest.

  Pulling my hands from his face, I grab his large hand and bring it to my chest.

  “You feel it?” My heart is beating a mile a minute.

  “Yeah, Lana, I do,” He admits, no emotion reaching his face.

  “It’s beating for you. I will do the therapy. I will do whatever you need. Just please don’t break us. We can fight this, baby. We’ve done it before. So many times.” I lean in and kiss his lips. At first, he doesn’t kiss me back, so I go back in, nipping at his soft, limp lip. I pucker mine and graze over each centimeter of his, our eyes not closing, focused on one another.

  I stay nose-to-nose, our lips still whispering against each other as I say quietly into the morning, “You once asked me why I love you, and I said it’s because I can trust you. I need you to trust me, Kingston. Please.” The tears that were at bay just moments ago come crashing down, cascading between us and sliding over our touching lips.

  Without another word, his resolve shatters and he accepts me, trusts me, owns me like he always has. He trails his hands over my body as they leave my thighs, sliding up the curve of my silk-covered spine, then up into the back of my hair where he grips, nearly suffocating me. He sucks the air out of me, all while breathing it back into me, his control key to my survival.

  There is a hunger that has never been in his kiss before. A power—a dominant trait that he hides from me in order to keep my triggers from firing. But what he doesn’t know is I like it. Not only do I miss his touch, but I need it. It’s the one thing we have always had when everything else was crumbling around us. My walls come down, my defenses no longer able to fight. Here and now, I’m ready to do whatever this man needs in order to save us. I would fall at his feet if he asked.

  My nails dig into the skin of his taut chest, and it’s hot under my possessive touch. Our tongues battle, massaging and rolling like waves against each other, messy yet in sync. I whimper in his mouth as I begin to grind against him, and the sound resembles his low growl, the one that vibrates under my fingers. He taste like coffee, bacon, and him. An odd combination that feels like home.

  The friction of his growing cock is enough to grind against my swollen clit. The desire mixed with months and months of deprivation has me chasing my orgasm fast. He pulls his lips away from me and tilts his head, bringing his forehead to mine as his eyes lower and his mouth drops open. His heavy breathing and mine mingle as we both look down at our joined bodies. My nightie has ridden up my thighs, the tiniest peek of pussy skin showing as I pivot my hips back and forth over the tent in his bottoms.

  I’m hot watching him watch me grind on him like a horny slut. But I’m desperate to give him one orgasm, give him control over me after months of imprisoning myself from him.

  “Look at me. I’m so desperate for your forgiveness, baby,” I whimper again, then follow it with a breathy squeal when he thrusts his hips abruptly one time. The head of his cock hits my swollen clit and I detonate, practically falling out of his lap as I orgasm at the table.

  “Fuck, Kingston! Fuck!” I scream out, the noise of me reaching euphoria echoing throughout our large two-story home. By the time it bounces off the walls and gets back to me, I can hear it as if it is someone else.

  He stays silent for the first time as a lover, not vocalizing with me like he usually does, and it throws me off a bit as he watches me come down from my high. I watch his eyes as they stay on me, until my breathing evens out and I become limp—vulnerable. I bared myself to him, and he has done nothing more than look at me. I begged for him not to leave, and then I came on his material-clad cock without him even talking to me.

  “Up.” He finally breaks the silence with something far from what I wanted to hear, further disappointing me. I stumble to stand on shaky legs, both my arousal and sadness keeping me unsteady. Righting my nightie, I go to turn awkwardly, unsure what to do, confused at what the hell is happening.

  “I’m dropping Prince off with my sister then going to therapy. If you want to come, be there. If not, then I guess we don’t have anything else to say.” His words burn me like hot metal, making me feel like utter shit. I feel meek like a mouse, backed into the corner by the cat. I nod, and he moves around me without touching me, giving me the cold shoulder. One second, we were kissing, but as fast as he forfeited, he turned straight to cold.

  As he leaves me a mess of all kinds of emotion in the middle of our kitchen, I shiver, the tears coming back. I have never felt so rejected, and what’s worse, I know this isn’t the first time I actually deserve this treatment.

  I had to force myself to leave her post-orgasm in that kitchen. After the way she drew me in with her words as her weapon of choice, I couldn’t help but leave her like that. I’m mad, tired, then mad again. I have been dragged along with Lana’s false promises repeatedly over the years, and I guess a man gets to a point, and I’ve reached it. When she says she will change or move on and let me in, she does, but it’s short-lived, often ending before we can even settle into the normalcy of it.

  Walking away with her juices still coating my sweats, her breath still lingering in my senses, and her eyes still heavy with lustful vulnerability was hard to fucking do. But, for once in our relationship, I had to leave, because I can’t continue to be collateral damage, and I need to see she is actually serious about fixing herself.

  I undress and shower, doing my best to calm my racing heart and hush my thoughts. After twenty minutes, I get out and towel myself off, thinking about all the shit I have to tell the therapist today. Entering the room, Lana is sitting on the bed, texting, her head low. I don’t say anything at first, not sure how or what to say after the debacle in the fucking kitchen.

  “Am I good to shower?” Her soft voice cracks in the air as I enter our large walk-in closet.

  “Yeah.”

  “Thanks.” I watch her set her phone down in my peripherals and pay close attention as her small frame moves across the room and disappears into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her. As the door closes, I let out an audible breath, one I didn’t know I was even holding. The tension is thick, and as much as I love Lana and want nothing more than to take her in the shower and say sorry with our bodies, telling her I trust her, I don’t know if I do yet. For once, I need to stand my ground and be strong in ways that test my restraint.

  The next hour is silent. We move around each other as we finally get Prince up from his food nap and get him to my sister. Hopefully, therapy won’t be as hard, but hey—she got in the car. That’s a start, right?

  “Lana, I have heard so much about you. It’s nice to finally put a face to the name.” Dr. Moore smiles at her, the glasses on the bridge of her nose lifting just a bit with the movement.

  I look over at Lana, with oceans between us as she sits beside me, realizing she hasn’t said a word since after her shower. She stayed mute in the car, up until we dropped off our monkey. She snuggled him, her body shaking as she prepared to let him go, her eyes wide and worried as she watched my sister walk in the house. She cried the entire car ride, and like the dick I am, I let her. I didn’t attempt to comfort her, knowing damn well it would weaken me.

  Now, her head is lowered and her hair is shading her face, shielding her sad eyes from me. Her body language is guarded and I understand
that it’s because she doesn’t want to be here.

  “I’m a mess. I bet you think I’m insane.” Her words strike me.

  “Never. We all need a little help, don’t you think?” Dr. Moore asks, watching her closely, attempting to make her feel comfortable.

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right.” Lana digs her joined straight hands between her knees, her elbows digging into her stomach as she bites at her lip.

  “You’re anxious. How are you feeling about being here, Lana?” she asks, and I have to tear my eyes away from my girl. It’s breaking me to not give in and be the savior, but this is it; she has to be the one to change and make the effort.

  “I just... I feel... I mean...” She stutters, bringing one hand up to sweep the falling hair out of her face, tucking it behind her tiny ear, and giving me a view of her profile. Returning her hand between her legs, she lifts her eyes again, her head staying lowered. “I never wanted to give my problems this much control over me,” She admits.

  I focus my eyes on the falling rain pelting the window. My thumb is caught between my teeth as I bite the tip, trying to stay silent as my leg bobs up and down nervously.

  “Problems? What problems are you referring to?”

  “Um, well, Kingston said you think I have PTSD and postpartum. I mean, it makes sense,” She whispers.

  “Well, some of the symptoms he described sound to be those two things, but we don’t know for sure until we evaluate the circumstances a bit more. Why don’t we start with the postpartum? What do you feel when you aren’t with Princeton?”

  “I feel sick—afraid,” She confesses.

  I make the mistake of looking over at Lana and see her peering over to me, her eyes rimmed in red and the water collecting along her lower lash line, waiting to fall. I squeeze the fist on my thigh, restraining myself from reaching to her.

  “Afraid of what?”