by Whitney G.
I know that I should ignore the sound, let him suffer from whatever is happening, but I can’t. The broken pieces of my heart still beat for him, and they’re still longing for him to stitch them back together with a thread that will sew everything into perfect sense.
I leave my bedroom and walk down to his door, easily entering the new code on his keypad. The moment I step inside, I freeze at the sight of him writhing violently on the bed.
Wearing only his briefs and a gold necklace that bears his initials, he’s sweating under the cold air and all the spinning ceiling fans. He’s struggling to breathe properly, twisting and turning like he’s having a grand mal seizure.
Finally forcing my feet to move toward him, I move on top of him and shake his shoulders.
“Michael, wake up.” I shake him a bit harder. “Michael, stop. Wake up.”
It’s no use. He’s writhing even harder now, damn near bucking me off him.
“Help me …” he whispers. “Help me move him…. Help me get them all back…”
“Michael, wake up.” I slap his cheek as hard as I can. “Michael, you’re fucking scaring me... Wake up.”
“You’re going to burn.” He seethes. “Forever…”
“Michael.” I grab his head and shake it as hard as I can—keeping my fingers in his hair.
He finally stops.
I let out a sigh of relief and start to move off him, but his hands suddenly grip my neck.
Still in a trance, he grips my neck like a boa constrictor—slowly tightening the pressure and stealing every chance I have to breathe.
I claw at his hands and try to dig my nails deep into his knuckles to get him to let go, but I’m no match for his strength. His hold on my neck tightens even more, and I feel my eyes bulging from the pressure.
Oh my god, please. Please don’t kill me.
Hot tears fall down my face, splashing onto his inked knuckles.
I try to fight for my life as hard as I can, but it’s no use. He’s choking the hell out of me.
My vision blurs, and I start to see my life slipping through the grip of his fingertips.
He’s really going to kill me…
My heart begins to slow, and I lose sensation in my fingers. I feel my leg muscles going weak, then my arms.
Right as I’m succumbing to the end—seeing a light haze everywhere, Michael’s eyes flutter open. They meet mine, and his recognition of the hands grabbing my neck is instant. He looks at me in utter horror, immediately letting me go.
I suck in several hard-fought breaths and stumble off him.
“Meredith…” he says, looking remorseful and embarrassed. “Meredith, I’m—”
I don’t give him a chance to finish.
I get up and rush the hell away from him, toward my bedroom. Right when I’m grabbing the doorknob, I feel him gently grabbing my waist from behind, picking me up and sweeping me off my feet.
He carries me through his bedroom and into the master bathroom suite. Carefully setting me onto the edge of the tub, he looks into my eyes—his gaze extremely apologetic.
As if he’s unsure of what to say first, he grabs both my hands and looks into my eyes. He stares at me for what feels like forever, looking just as hurt as I feel.
“I would never hurt you, Meredith,” he says, his voice low. “I had no idea what I was doing…No idea it was you.”
Who the hell else would it be? I don’t respond to him. I have no words to say.
“This is why I always left you in the middle of the night,” he says, cupping my face in his hands—using his thumbs to catch my tears as they continue to fall. “I never wanted you to see me like that.”
I still don’t answer, but now that I think about it, I’ve never seen this man sleep once. Even when I fell asleep in his arms, I always felt like he was on edge, always awake and listening to every sound. And any time I woke up, his green eyes were already staring into mine and waiting to start the day.
“You have to know that I didn’t mean to do that,” he says.
“No. I don’t.” I shake my head. “I really don’t know who the hell you are.”
“You know me better than anyone else I’ve ever been with…” He steps back and grabs a small towel. Then he holds it under a running tap. “I’ve told you a lot more than what I originally planned.”
“You didn’t tell me you had a twin brother.”
He ignores my comment and gently pushes my head to the side—examining the pink marks that the pressure of his fingers left in my skin. Through the mirror, I can see the look of shame on his face as he soothes me with the cold towel.
“I lost something years ago,” he says softly. “It’s been affecting me ever since, and not a single day has gone by that I’ve forgotten.”
“Is it an ex you loved? A child?”
“No,” he says, pressing the towel against me again. “It’s not someone, just something.”
For several seconds, we don’t speak. The silent seconds stretch into minutes, the minutes stretch into moments. Moments of him using the towel to try to make up for what he’s done.
When he finally sets it down, he kisses my neck—softly darting his tongue against every soft spot where his fingers once tightened against my skin.
“I’m sorry, Meredith,” he says.
“I don’t forgive you.”
“I don’t expect you to…” He runs his fingers through my hair, and as much as I want to push at him and walk away, I can’t. “I think you should let me help you feel better, though.”
“I can do that myself.”
“Can you?”
He slides a hand between my thighs and my skin heats. My body immediately reacts and I have the sudden urge to taste his lips.
“Answer me…” he says, sliding his hand under the band of my panties.
“Just because my body reacts to you, doesn’t mean that I want you.”
“Do you honestly mean that?”
“I should.” I suck in a breath as he rubs my clit, making it swell in anticipation against the pad of his thumb. “I should…but…”
“But what?”
“I don’t.”
He presses his lips against my inner thigh and begins kissing a heated trail up my skin—pushing back the silk of my slip with every mark of his lips. Gazing up at me with his stunning green eyes every few seconds, he takes his time rendering me speechless.
Gently slipping his hands under my legs, he slides a finger under the band of my panties and pulls them off in one smooth motion. They fall to the floor in a pool of black silk, and he picks them up and stuffs them into the pocket of his briefs; his former, not-so-subtle way of telling me that my pussy belongs to him.
“Sit up for me,” he says, his voice low.
I oblige and he clasps my ankles—carefully lifting them up and placing my legs over his shoulders. I grab onto the edge of the claw-footed tub, and he slowly pulls me closer—teasing me with long kisses against my skin. Long, sensual kisses that move closer and closer to my slit.
He pulls away from me as I try to move his head a bit closer, leaving me straddling between the edge between desperate need and bubbling obsession.
He places one final long kiss against my inner thigh, a kiss that leaves me grabbing his hair for balance—and then he buries his head against my pussy.
As he devours me, my body aches in pleasure with every skilled swipe of his tongue, every soft squeeze of my ass.
I haven’t felt him inside of me for weeks, and I’m regretting all of the wasted seconds. All of the missed touches and orgasms.
Damn…
Briefly pulling his mouth away from my soaking wet slit, he slips one of his thick fingers deep inside of me.
My body feels immediately lost without the warmth of his mouth, and I look into his eyes, as he leans back—searching for a reason.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen or heard you come for me,” he says, slipping a second finger inside of me. “Want to mak
e sure I take in every fucking moment.” Without another word, he presses his mouth against me again, punishing me with an unrelenting rhythm that sends thousands of tremors running up and down my spine.
I shut my eyes as my clit throbs in utter pleasure, as he groans loudly against me. I grab onto his hair as he changes his perfect sensual and slow rhythm, to one that’s starving and primal.
Surrendering all control, I get lost in his dominating ways, the way he can make my body bend to his will, like no other man can.
I use my legs to hold onto him a little harder. I try to hold back and enjoy his mouth on me for a few more minutes, but his tongue sends me over the edge and I begin to collapse.
“Michael…Michael…” I try to get him to give me a little control, but he never stops his rhythm. And it’s useless for me to fight his power, as orgasmic tremors start wracking their way through my entire body.
Screaming his name at the top of my lungs, I come apart in his mouth for what feels like forever. And when I start to come back down, I can still feel him teasing me with his tongue a bit slower, still feel him begging me to accept his apology.
Looking at the sight of him between my legs makes me want to beg him for more, but I show restraint.
When he finishes kissing my clit—shortly after I’ve stopped shaking against him, he moves back and sets my feet onto the tiled floor again. He stares at me—his green eyed gaze heated as he pushes my slip’s shoulder strap back into place. He brushes loose strands of hair off my face and trails his finger against my collarbone.
The look in his eyes tells me that he wants more of me---right now. And if I was sane, I would refuse. I would use what was left of my energy, walk the hell away from him, and return to my room.
I’ve been past insane since the day we met, though.
I stand up and move past him, slowly walking out of the bathroom suite. I feel his eyes watching my every move as I step onto the floor of his bedroom.
Stopping at the edge of his bed, I grab the hem of my slip and slowly pull it over my head.
I look over my shoulder—daring him to follow me, before slipping under the sheets.
Smiling, he stands to his feet and shuts the door for a few seconds. I hear the sink water running and adjust my head onto a pillow.
Moments later, he joins me on the bed—attaching his mouth to mine. He grabs my hands and slowly moves them over my head, pinning my body down with his hips.
I can feel his rock-hard cock against my thigh, and I beg him to give it to me. Whisper that it’s all his, that right now nothing else matters, and I just want to feel him deep inside of me.
He doesn’t hesitate to deliver. Still kissing me, he slides into me all at once—filling me and making me whole. Making me never want to experience a day when he isn’t inside of me.
He stares into my eyes as he makes love to me, hard and deep, more slowly and more sensually than we used to fuck. He runs his hands up my sides as he kisses me softly—whispering words against my lips that I don’t quite comprehend.
All I can interpret is, “I did all this for you…”
As he continues to move in and out of me, I moan and dig my nails into his back. I feel something hard underneath me and start to reach for it, but he kisses me harder and makes me forget.
“Fuck, Meredith…” He thrusts into me one last time—his stroke hitting my spot at just the right moment. He grips my hands as he stiffens, and I call out his name as we reach our climax at the same time.
Still inside of me, he bends down and kisses my forehead. Then he kisses every inch of my neck—still saying sorry for moments earlier.
We remain entwined for what feels like forever, until he slowly rolls off me.
“Water?” he asks.
I nod and he leaves the room. I wait until I hear his feet against the steps. Then I reach under me to see what was rubbing up against me during sex.
It’s a cell phone. Swallowing, I stare at it for several seconds, unsure of what to do. I roll over and grab my slip from the floor, pulling it back over my body. I tuck the phone into my bra and sit up, hoping like hell that he won’t notice.
He steps into the room mid-thought, two glasses of water in hand. Holding one out for me, he waits on me to take a few sips before sitting next to me.
“You should get some rest,” he says. “I still need you to give me a hundred laps in the pool later this morning.”
“Are you ever going to tell me why you’re making me do that?”
He lets out a sigh. “I will at the end.”
“By ‘the end’ do you mean, the end of my life?”
“Only figuratively.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“You’re pretty well-read,” he says, downing the rest of his water, as I stand up from the mattress. “I’m sure I don’t have to define what a simple word like that means.”
“Are you implying murder?”
“It’s a little too late to kill you, Meredith,” he says. “If that was the plan, I would’ve done it weeks ago.” He shakes his head. “Do you have any other questions?”
“Several.”
“Well, that’s quite unfortunate,” he says. “I’m all out of answers.”
I turn away and walk toward the door.
“Wait,” he says, triggering my heart to race overtime. “One second.”
“Yeah?” I turn around.
“Your ring fell off.” He holds it out to me, then slips it onto my finger. He looks as if he wants to say something more, but he simply sighs and returns to his room, shutting the door behind him.
I rush to my room and immediately pull the phone from my bra. No service bars, just roaming. I debate risking a 9-1-1 call, if that would even work, but I know I need to think this all the way through.
Instead, I open the recent calls list and my stomach falls to the floor. I know the number of the last few calls by heart.
101-088-8076…
I know it all too well, and I know now, more than ever, that this man has something extremely dark and ugly up his sleeve for me in the future…
Meredith
Before
“Where to Miss?” The driver smiled at me as I slipped into his cab.
“120 Park Avenue.”
He nodded and pulled onto the street as I buckled my seatbelt. Pulling my phone out of my purse, I turned on the selfie camera and took one final look at my makeup.
With my eyelids coated in shimmering pink and my lips coated in a red that stood out against my freckle-concealing foundation, I almost looked like one of the girls in the magazines. At least, I was trying to convince myself that this was the case.
As I was adding a tad bit more highlighter to my cheeks, the phone buzzed against my fingertips with an incoming call.
101-088-8076…. Bzzzz! 101-088-8076…
Ugh.
It was the same number that called me morning, noon, and night for no reason at all. For several months in a row. I’d blocked it numerous times, but somehow, someway, it still managed to get through.
Blocking it again, I checked my email to make sure my boss hadn’t sent me any last-minute requests. Not that I’d be able to do anything about them for the next two hours, though.
Tonight was my night to dance on the premiere stage at Club Swan, and I couldn’t afford to miss it. Literally couldn’t afford to.
No matter how badly I tried to convince myself that I only danced for myself—to deal with the pain, I knew that was a lie. I was dancing for far more than that these days.
My future was on the line, and I was willing to do whatever it took to make sure I’d have enough to set it up exactly how I wanted.
However, I’d fallen for the worst part of the game somewhere between my mother’s death and my job at Vogue. I’d started using my photographic memory to my advantage and adopted the unfortunate habit of stealing from some of the wealthiest clients, whenever they handed over their credit cards.
At first, it w
as just a few twenties here or there, a fifty to cover my cab fare home, a hundred to replace the silver strap on a shoe. But over time, I realized that fifty dollars to these men was like fifty cents, and contrary to most people’s beliefs, working as an editor for Vogue didn’t pay shit. (The true value was in the “exposure,” and “lasting long enough to get noticed and poached by a company willing to pay more”.)
From the outside looking in, most people assumed that my lifestyle was the stuff of dreams, but they didn’t know the half of it.
Every piece in my “six-figure wardrobe” was on loan from Vogue’s overstuffed back-order closet. My million-dollar condo was a guilt gift from my father, and by the time the lawyers sorted out my mother’s estate and paid her taxes, all that was left was a few small debts that fell to me.
I had nothing.
Sure, I could’ve easily accepted the inheritance from my father’s estate, but I knew there were strings attached to those millions. It wasn’t just, “Here you go, claim your funds and walk away.” It was, “Here are these drip payments and they can stop anytime you stop playing” my father’s game. Anytime I refused to show up to an event where he wanted me to be, anytime I refused to hang out with fellow socialites for a warm reception in the press. Even if we were slowly getting on better terms, I knew my father would never let me use his money to live my own life; I would pay him for it, in one way or another.
I had huge dreams outside of this city, and at the rate I was saving (Okay, stealing), I’d be able to start my own design house and work for myself by the end of next year.
As I was adjusting my earrings, my phone buzzed in my lap again. Michael.
“Hello?” I answered.
“Hello, Meredith,” he said, his voice deep. “I’m returning your call from earlier. Was something wrong?”
“No, I was just wondering what you were doing tonight.”
“You.” He let out a low laugh. “But before that, I’m going to a private production of Wicked at Gershwin Theater around ten o’clock. You’re more than welcome to join me, if you’d like.”
