Then his grip loosens and he flips me over. His hand is still around my neck. He's still fucking me, thrusting deep. But now it's slower, more methodical. His eyes are still glazed, but I see the man I love behind the shadows, and when he whispers, Mine, I know that he sees me, too, even from somewhere in his dream.
With each thrust of his fingers, he's moving over my pelvis. Grinding himself against me. And I can see that he's close. I feel it when his body tenses, when he tightens his grip around my throat again, when he explodes over my belly, my breasts, and then throws his head back and groans.
For a moment, I think it's a victory, but when he opens his eyes and looks at me, all I see is horror.
Within seconds, he's released my neck. He leaps off the bed and is flat against the wall, his chest rising and falling. His eyes wide. His face so full of pain and self-loathing it breaks my heart.
I sit up, trying not to show how sore I am. How hard it is to breathe. "Dallas," I say, but he holds up his hand as if he can't stand the sound of his name.
I don't silence myself though. "It's okay," I say. "I told you to. You didn't hurt me. I consented. A hundred times, a thousand times. I wanted this. You needed it."
"Needed to fucking rape you?" His voice is thick, and I think he is on the verge of breaking down.
"You didn't," I repeat. "I wanted it. I told you."
"I could have hurt you."
"I'm right here. I'm not hurt."
"No." He shakes his head, then brings his hands up and squeezes his skull. "God, no. What the fuck? This isn't--I can't. Fuck."
His eyes find me. "I was a fool," he says, his voice low. "We can't ever have normal. We can't ever be normal. I'm a danger to you. Physically. Emotionally. And I can't do this. I can't stay with you and watch myself destroy what I love most in the world."
He starts for the door.
"Dallas!" I call, but he just keeps going. And he doesn't look back.
My body aches to go after him, but I hold myself still, clutching tight to the sheets as if to anchor me. I tell myself that he just needs time. After all, that was seriously intense.
I tell myself that, but I'm not convinced. Because I know that he believes that tonight is proof that he can't do normal, whatever the fuck that is. That at his core he's a man who needs pain. Who needs danger. Who needs to hurt to get off and, maybe, needs to be hurt, too.
The one thing that Dallas has consistently told me throughout all of our life together is that he will protect me, no matter what it takes.
Right now, I know, he thinks to protect me he has to leave me.
And I have no idea how to convince him otherwise.
I stay curled up in bed, alternating between dozing and crying, until almost noon. Then I can't take it any longer. I have to talk to him. He may need time, but I need to hear his voice, and right now, my need is the one that's winning.
I hit the speed dial for Dallas, then hold my breath as I wait for him to answer. And wait.
And wait.
And wait.
Then I get voicemail.
Shit.
I don't bother leaving a message. Instead, I call the house line, which Mrs. Foster answers on the first ring.
"Hey there, sweetheart," she says, as soon as I say hello.
"I didn't realize you were back," I say.
"Just an hour ago."