Chapter 19 #2
Sean follows me into the kitchen and gives me a friendly hug. “Thank you for having me over. Dinner was delicious. I would stay and help clean up, but I think I need to go before I make a bigger mess.”
“Sean, you don’t have to leave.”
“No. I really do,” he says.
I’ll always have Hannah’s back, and it kills me that she feels jerked around by Sean.
But from what Carter’s told me, and the defeated look on Sean’s face, I can’t help but think there’s a lot more to this situation than we all know.
Before I can say anything else, he turns on his heels—without so much as a goodbye to anyone else—and walks out the door.
Twenty minutes later, cards are scattered on the coffee table, and the game has been forgotten. One by one, all of our friends begin to leave.
Boy, Aiden sure knows how to clear out a room.
After tidying up the kitchen and putting the game away, Carter and I curl up on the couch together. I tuck my legs under a blanket and turn on The Notebook, leaning into his side.
“Chick flick it is, then,” he says, kissing the top of my head.
“What? The way Noah loves Allie is sweet.”
“Was it that he really loved her, or was it something else?”
I lean back and shoot him a look that screams, “Are you serious?” Of course Noah loved Allie. With his entire heart. He built a damn house for her. Read their life story to her when she forgot.
“Oh, we’re about to fight. You take that back right now!”
Carter laughs. “Okay, look, you see him as the perfect hero in an ultimate love story, but what I see is a man with romantic idealizations who places her on this unrealistic pedestal. He exaggerates her positive traits while ignoring her negative ones. He doesn’t see her flaws.
Doesn’t really care to either. When she leaves him, he obsesses on giving her everything she ever wanted, thinking if he held on tight enough, he wouldn’t lose her.
It’s a classic case of anxious pre-occupied attachment. ”
My mouth drops halfway through his psychoanalysis of a fucking movie character, and when he finishes, I adamantly shake my head.
“Nope. I can’t be convinced. Carter, he wrote her letters for a year.”
“Exactly my point. After she didn’t write him back for the first few months, that should have signaled him to find closure.”
“Says the man who chased my ass for over a year.”
“And I’m still chasing your ass, fully aware of your flaws, and not giving a single fuck about them.” He laughs, and I pinch his side. “Ouch!”
He grabs my wrist and holds me back until it becomes an all-out tickle fight. I kick my feet, trying like hell to fight him off.
“Okay, stop,” I wheeze, picking the blanket up from the floor.
As I bend over, Carter gives my ass a little slap. Gasping, I turn around. His eyes widen, and his mouth drops open like he can’t believe he just did that. The moment lingers, the air crackling between us. My pulse races faster with each passing second.
I liked it.
And I liked it when his hands were around my throat. And when he pulled my hair during training. I loved that dream about him.
Am I fucked up?
Would he think I’m messed up? Carter certainly knows his shit when it comes to why people like the things they like, so why not ask him?
I lick my lips and muster up the courage to ask, “So . . . what would you say about someone who’s into BDSM, or something like it?”
“That’s quite the segue from codependence.”
“I’m aware. Just answer the question,” I snark back, trying to hide my unease at even asking it.
“Well, that’s a whole other scenario. Some people just like kink. That doesn’t mean there’s anything psychologically wrong with them. If you elaborate, I can tell you what I think.”
He pulls the blanket up over me and rests his hand on my hip.
“For instance, let’s say someone who has a past like mine wanted someone to . . . you know . . . I mean, would you think that person was fucked up?”
He shifts in his seat, his eyes holding mine prisoner as he studies me.
Swallowing hard, his Adam’s apple bobs, and before I can even blink, I’m on my back, his hand cradling the back of my head, his fingers threading through my hair, and pulling it into his tight fist. I lick my lips and moan as he tilts my head back and runs his nose up my neck.
“Is that what you were dreaming about when you were lying in my bed?”
How does he know I’ve dreamed about him? I don’t give him a response. How can I? I can barely even think.
“Answer me, baby. Have you dreamed of me doing the most depraved shit to you?”
“Y-Yes.”
Releasing my hair, he moves down my body, trailing kisses down my neck, my chest, to the line of my cleavage. He lifts my shirt, dragging his mouth down to my stomach, kissing and licking as he pins my arms at my side. I’m aching for him. I want him.
He nestles himself between my legs, and my hips move of their own accord; I have no control over myself.
My body is on fire, and I feel my core contract as if it’s screaming for more friction.
He sits up and reaches for the candle on the coffee table.
His eyes never leave mine as he brings the jar over, tilting the glass, and letting the hot wax drip onto my stomach.
It burns for just a second, then an aching need throbs between my legs, and I gasp, “Carter.”
“Burns at first, right? But then it feels good. You see . . . there’s pleasure in pain.
Sometimes the two blend together.” He sets the glass back down, and his lips hover over mine before he threads my bottom lip between his teeth and tugs.
“But to answer your original question, BDSM is very likely your brain’s trauma response.
You want to replace what’s happened to you with something positive in an environment you can control. There’s nothing fucked up about it.”
His breath hits my ear as he continues. “If you think it’s fucked up, then I must be fucked up.
I want you spread out, aching, completely at my mercy.
I want to erase every single thing that bastard ever did to you and replace it with new memories of me that make you tremble in pleasure.
Pull your hair, choke you, spank you . .
. tie you up . . . manipulate the fuck out of your body, watch you submit to me and fall apart in the most beautiful, fucking, erotic way with my name spilling from your lips.
I don’t want to control you. I want to worship every inch of you.
There’s power in dominance, but there’s far more in submission.
I may hold the lock, but you’ll always hold the goddamn key. ”
“Oh, God.”
“Wrong sanctuary, baby.”
He feathers a kiss over my lips, “There’s not a fucking thing wrong with you. I’ll give you anything you want. All you have to do . . . is say the words I wanna hear.”
I’m delirious and turned the fuck on, but I’m not telling him shit. When I do, it won't be when he’s ready, it will be when I’m ready. On my terms. It’s not about being stubborn; it’s about power. I don’t want anyone taking that from me ever again.
When I don’t respond, he lifts himself off me—the heat of his body leaving mine—and walks out of the living room.
Where the fuck is he going?
I wait and I wait, but he never comes back.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” I yell at the ceiling.
He’s never been cruel, but this is fucking merciless.
“You’re really not coming back?” I yell loud enough for him to hear.
When he doesn’t answer, I turn everything off, blow out the godforsaken fucking candle, and go to my room. I want to be close to him. I miss him every second I’m not with him; even when he’s on the other side of the room. Doesn’t he know that I’m already his? Why do I have to say it?
Still so fucking angry and maybe even more hurt than anything, I peel the wax from my body and toss it in the bathroom trash. I undress, throw on an oversized t-shirt, and climb beneath my covers. Throwing my head back against the pillow, I cry out in frustration and swipe a tear from my cheek.
One parting remark I’m not sure he can hear, but I have to get it off my chest.
“Seriously, Carter. This is so fucked up.”