Whore.
My lungs squeezed, tightening and tightening with a band that wouldn’t release. Tears burned the backs of my eyes.
Two rough hands grasped my face. “Breathe.”
His touch dimmed my papà’s voice in my mind. I was suddenly envious of Allister; my nightmares were terrified of him. I shut my eyes, focusing on the breathing techniques my therapist taught me.
“We’ll get a Plan B.” His thumb brushed away the tear running down my cheek.
I nodded, shaky.
He let me go, and as he put himself back together—zipping his pants
and fixing his hair that I’d thoroughly mussed—something frigid settled in the air. It felt suspiciously like regret. His warmth disappeared, ice coming back to his eyes and shoulders.
If he didn’t know the extent of the baggage I carried around before, he knew now. Mortification felt heavy in my chest. Maybe this had been necessary—to make it easy not to speak to him again. Simply because I’d be too humiliated to acknowledge this had ever happened.
The panic attack soon ebbed, but it was still so cold between us. Even as he helped me adjust my dress and then used a napkin from the glovebox to wipe the come from my thighs.
I SHUT THE CAR DOOR harder than I should have. Ran a hand through my hair to try and get rid of the soft feel of her fingers in it. Rolled my shoulders to push away the obsessive thoughts lighting up my back. Keep her. Make her want you. Make her need you.
Fuck, I shouldn’t have done it.
It was like trying to cure an addict by giving him the best goddamn hit of his life.
A bell dinged above my head as I entered the drugstore. It took longer than it should have to find the right aisle because images of Gianna still consumed my mind. Her soft eyes, lips parted, the flare of her hips, her sweet thighs as she shuddered while trying to take all of me.
My heart rate sped up, heat running to my groin.
I was already hard for her again.
It hadn’t been my plan to fuck her, but once I had my hands on her I couldn’t stop. You’d think it would have given me some relief, but all it seemed to have done was provide me with more images, noises, and real-estate to obsess over.
My eyes coasted over the emergency contraceptives, and I grabbed one to read the information on the back. My hand was shaking. Fucking ridiculous. You’d think I’d just lost my virginity.
Didn’t know if I could have stopped myself from coming in her if I’d wanted to. And hadn’t particularly wanted to.
An obsessive part of me—the one thoroughly fixated on Gianna’s every move—didn’t give a shit about consequences. Knocking her up would make its fucking day. It would finally give me a reason to throw my plans in the trash and make her mine.
Sounded good, sure—but that side of me was as rational as Gianna’s wardrobe. It had the idea she could be this pretty little fuck toy, one who’d be perfectly comfortable warming my bed all day, spreading her legs for me whenever I wanted, while keeping all her questions to herself.
In reality, she’d touch my shit. Reorganize my things. Fill my apartment with sugary cereal. And most importantly, slowly dig her way into my past. And when she did that, she’d hate me more than she already did. Maybe even be disgusted. I couldn’t stomach letting her see me in that light.
Gianna wasn’t for me.
As much as I hated it, she belonged with someone without any skeletons in his closet. Someone like Vincent Monroe.
My chest burned, rejecting the thought.
Maybe I’d take her out to eat first and hold on to the morning-after pill for a while, give the slight possibility a greater chance.
I ran a hand across my jaw.
Jesus. No.
In the end, I grabbed the generic brand.
My Cherie Amour played on the staticky radio, practically mocking me with its romantic lyrics as I set the item on the counter. The teenage cashier wearing a bored expression and chewing gum looked from my purchase to me, pausing on my neck, where I knew there were a few marks from Gianna’s sharp-ass nails.