Chapter 7 Maeve #3
I feel his long, callused fingers part my folds, and I gasp at his touch.
His middle finger strokes upward, up to that hard nub, and I feel a strange sensation spike through me again.
I fist my hands in the sheet under me, frozen as a corpse, as Sean methodically strokes his finger over that same spot, then dips it lower as if to test something.
He lets out a grunt and starts to rub again, his movements methodical, trying to coax some response from my body.
But I'm too frightened, too anxious, too aware that he doesn't want this, doesn't want me.
My body won't respond the way it's supposed to. Won't soften or warm or open for him.
I hear him curse under his breath, feel his hand still against me.
"Maeve." His voice is strained. "You need to relax. I can't… if you don't—" He lets out a sharp breath. “I’m big. Too big for you, probably. I’ll break you in half if you’re not ready for me.”
"I'm trying," I whisper, tears leaking from the corners of my eyes. "I'm sorry, I'm trying—"
He lets out another grunt and shifts his position on the bed, taking his hand out from between my legs and licking his first two fingertips.
The movement seems obscene somehow, and I feel my cheeks heat as he puts his hand back, his fingertips now damp as they roll over the tight little nub that is supposed to, I think, give me pleasure.
“Fuck,” he growls under his breath. He shifts, climbing onto the bed and grasping my knees as he moves them apart, kneeling between my legs.
Looming over me like this, he looks huge, and my heart starts to hammer with terror, my entire body going cold.
He hasn’t taken off any more clothing, but I can see a swelling against his fly, a long shape that presses against the dark fabric of his suit trousers.
He pushes my nightgown up higher, and for a moment, his gaze goes still between my thighs. My cheeks burn hotter, realizing that he’s staring at the intimate flesh there, taking in the sight of what no one else has ever looked at before.
What belongs to him, now.
“Fuck,” he growls, his voice lower, darker now, and I see that shape in his pants strain forward, thickening and growing more defined. A shudder runs through me, and I see his jaw tighten, the muscle there leaping as he starts to lean down, as if he’s going to put his face between my legs.
On instinct, I try to writhe away from him, shocked and startled and frightened. “What are you doing?” I thrash backwards, jerking out of his grip. “What—Sean—”
“For fuck’s sake, Maeve,” he snaps, running a hand through his hair as he rocks back on his knees. “I’m trying to get you fucking wet. What woman doesn’t want her husband to fucking eat her out?”
“Eat—” I look at him, bewildered, and he lets off a string of curses, each sounding angrier than the last.
“Christ, they didn’t just give me a bloody virgin—they gave me a fucking idiot.” He glares at me. “Fine. Just… lie down. We’ll go slow.”
“I’m not—” I swallow hard, staring at him as tears drip onto my lashes. “I’m not an idiot. I just don’t know anything about…” I wrap my arms around myself, refusing to lie back down. “Just because I didn’t have anyone to explain all of this to me doesn’t make me stupid!”
For the barest instant, I think I see his face soften before it goes hard again. “Christ,” he swears again. “You’re right. I’m sorry. You’re not stupid. But God, I didn’t think it was possible to be so bloody na?ve.”
I bite my lip so hard I taste blood. We stare at each other for a long moment, and I dare another glance below his waist. The straining ridge I saw there a moment before has lessened. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, blinking back tears.
“Fuck,” Sean repeats. “Just… let’s get this over with.
Once it’s done, we’ll wait a good long while before trying again, alright?
” He says it as if it’s as much to himself as to me, and my chest aches at the idea that my husband hates me so much that he wants to put off going to bed with me again for as long as possible.
It feels so horribly conflicting, both wishing this man would disappear and hating how small and humiliated and rejected he makes me feel.
I don’t want him, but I also can’t stand how little he seems to be able to tolerate me.
At the very least, we’re both in the same situation. He could try to be more understanding.
But I don’t say any of that. I slide back down, my nightgown collecting around my hips, and Sean leans down, gripping the headboard with one hand as he fumbles at his zipper with the other.
He’s so much bigger than me, his broad shoulders blocking out the light, his hips settling between my thighs. He’s hard and intimidating, and panic claws up my throat. "Sean, I don't think—"
"It's fine. Just breathe." He's not looking at me, and I hear the sound of his zipper being dragged down. "I’ll be slow, and then once I’m inside, it'll be over quick.”
The words should be comforting. They're not.
I can’t breathe. I try not to look down as I feel him palming himself free, but I can’t stop myself. I catch a glimpse of his thick length, bigger than I imagined a man could be—without much of a reference to base it off of, besides biology textbooks in school—and cold fear washes over me again.
“It’s too big,” I whisper, and Sean grunts as his hand strokes back and forth.
“You’ll be fine,” he mutters, and it sounds somewhat as if he’s trying to convince himself of that, too.
His breathing quickens, and he shifts. His knee pushes my legs apart as he settles down atop me, bracing himself to keep from giving me too much of his muscled weight.
I can’t move, can’t even breathe, and I feel a sudden thick, blunt pressure against my entrance.
I feel his hips move, feel him trying to push inside. But I'm too tense, too tight, too scared, and it hurts. It hurts, and he's not even really in yet, and I can't breathe—
"Stop." My voice comes out high and panicked. "Stop, please, it hurts—"
He freezes. For a long moment, he doesn't move, doesn't breathe. Then he pulls back, rolling off me so quickly I feel cold where his body was.
"Fuck," he says again, sitting on the edge of the bed with his back to me. His hands are in his hair, his shoulders rising and falling with harsh breaths. "Fuck."
I lie there, my nightgown rucked up around my waist, my legs still spread, feeling exposed and humiliated and utterly worthless.
"I'm sorry," I whisper. "I'm sorry, I can try again, I just need—"
"No." His voice is hard. Final. "That's not happening."
“I can try—”
“I can’t,” he bites out. He turns slightly, motioning to his lap, and I catch sight of what was thick and hard a moment ago, now soft and much smaller.
“I barely fucking got it up the first time, what with you shaking and crying. I can’t do it now.
Fuck. I can’t fucking do this. This isn’t fucking happening. ”
The reality of what he’s saying hits me. He can't consummate the marriage. Can't go through with it.
Because I'm that repulsive. That undesirable. Too na?ve and stupid.
The shame is overwhelming, crushing, suffocating.
I feel the tears starting up again, and I wonder how many more times I’m going to cry before the night is over.
Sean shoves himself up from the bed, muttering something under his breath that I don’t hear, except for a few words about the bloody fucking Council as he walks to the minibar.
Great. I clench my teeth. He’s going to drink more. Maybe he thinks he can do it if he’s completely drunk. Although I thought I heard Siobhan say something once about how men can’t get it up—I wasn’t sure what it was, then—if they’re drunk, so maybe…
He reaches down to his overnight bag lying next to it, and unzips the top.
Then he grabs a small glass shot bottle of whiskey, twists the top off, downs half of it, and pours the other half over his exposed forearm as I stare at him, so completely confused that I can’t even form a thought right now.
He strides back toward the bed, and I see a glint of something in his hand. A blade, I realize, through my fog of confusion. He’s holding a knife.
Fear rattles through me. Is he going to kill me? Is that how he’s going to get out of this? By killing his wife on his wedding night? Blaming it on someone else?
And then, as I’m lying there on the bed, frozen with fear, Sean drags the knife over the middle of his forearm, his jaw clenched.
He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even look like it hurts. I stare at him, horrified as blood wells up, dark and thick, running down his arm.
"What are you doing?" I scramble to sit up, horror replacing my shame. "Sean, what—"
“Spread your legs,” he growls, and I obey without thinking, my brain completely locked up. He tilts his arm and lets a few drops of the blood drip onto the white sheets between my legs, then smears it across the fabric, making it look like—
It clicks in that moment what he’s doing. He's faking it. Faking the consummation.
He wipes the knife on his pants, clicks it shut, and shoves it into his pocket, then strides to the bathroom without a word. A few minutes later, he comes out with a hand towel wrapped around his forearm, his expression just as cold and hard as ever.
"If anyone asks," he says, finally meeting my gaze, "I took your virginity tonight. You understand?"
I nod mutely, unable to form words.
"Good." He grabs his jacket from where he discarded it. "Get some sleep."
Then he's walking toward the door again—leaving me again—and I find my voice.
"Where are you going?" I manage, the words cracking. I feel like my head is spinning.
He pauses, his hand on the doorknob, but he doesn't turn around. "Away from here. I'll be back in the morning."
"But—"
He walks out, and the door closes behind him, cutting off my protest.
I'm alone.
Alone on bloodstained sheets, wearing white silk that was supposed to make my husband want me, feeling more worthless and broken than I've ever felt in my life. I hadn’t known it was possible to fall further than I had, but here I am, and I have no idea where we go from here.
He couldn't do it. Couldn't consummate our marriage. Couldn't stand to touch me long enough to get through it.
What's wrong with me? What did I do to make him hate me so much?
I pull my knees to my chest and wrap my arms around them, making myself as small as possible. This all feels like some horrendous joke. They said Sean was going to protect me, but he can't even stand to be in the same room with me.
The city lights shine through the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating this mockery of a wedding suite.
Somewhere out there, Sean is walking or drinking or doing whatever he needs to do to avoid being near me.
And I'm here, alone on my wedding night, wondering how I'm going to survive a lifetime of this.
Wondering if I even want to try.