Chapter Twenty-two
Serena
“Under the Influence” by Chris Brown pulses loudly through the restroom, the bass vibrating through the marble walls.
We couldn’t really hear the music in the restaurant, but here it’s impossible to escape it.
The irony isn’t lost on me. Fighting with my almost-lover, my almost-everything, to this song is not how I imagined this night ending.
Not even close.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, love?” Lorenzo asks, his voice sharp with anger as he strides straight toward me.
“Using the restroom,” I snap, turning away from him, my hands braced against the cold sink. “Can you leave?”
I hate how weak my voice sounds. I hate that he can hear it anyway.
He doesn’t listen. Of course he doesn’t.
He steps closer, close enough that I can feel the heat of his body behind me. “Why are you crying?” he demands.
My chest tightens painfully.
“Don’t touch me,” I say, pushing against his chest, but it barely moves him.
He comes even closer, ignoring me completely. His scent surrounds me, mint and smoke and him, and it makes my head spin. It makes everything worse. My body betrays me even while my heart is breaking.
“What’s wrong?” he asks again, his voice rough, angry, controlled just enough to be dangerous.
I turn to face him, trying to swallow the tears, but they spill over anyway, clinging to my lashes and sliding down my cheeks. My heart feels like it’s being crushed from the inside.
“What’s wrong?” I shout. “What do you mean, what’s wrong? Like everything is fine?”
My voice breaks, and I hate myself for it.
“The question is what is not wrong,” I continue, my hands shaking. “Everything is wrong. And I want you gone.”
His jaw tightens.
“Excuse me?” he asks darkly, his tone dropping, lethal.
I wipe my tears, but more follow immediately. “You heard me. This is over. Over.” My breath stutters as my body starts to tremble. “I want you out of my house, out of my life. I don’t want to see you ever again.”
The words hurt me as much as they hurt him, but I force them out anyway.
His face hardens, his expression going dangerously still. He looks infuriatingly beautiful like this, all sharp lines and restrained violence.
“Why?” he asks.
The simplicity of the question nearly destroys me.
“Why?” I cry. “Because we’re not together.” My hands clutch at my dress, my stomach aching. “Because you’re supposed to be with someone else, and I’m supposed to move on and find my happiness somewhere else.”
The words echo in the restroom, heavy and final.
It’s like everything I said before never existed. Like he heard nothing except the last sentence.
He steps into my space without warning, completely invading it, until my back presses against the cold marble. His hand tangles in my hair, gripping a painful fistful and forcing my head back until I’m looking straight into his blue eyes.
“What the fuck did you just say?” he growls.
His mouth finds my neck, teeth sinking into my skin hard enough to steal my breath. Not gentle. Not comforting. A warning.
“I have that much patience, love,” he says against my skin, his voice low and lethal. “But the words another man and move on do not belong in the same sentence with you. I hope you understand that.”
He leans closer, his lips brushing my ear, his presence overwhelming, unavoidable.
“There’s no moving forward without me,” he murmurs. “Only delays I tolerate.” His teeth catch my ear, a sharp bite that makes my knees weaken despite myself.
“Don’t mistake my restraint for weakness,” he says softly, voice steady in a way that makes it worse. “Say again that you’d choose another man, and I’ll show you exactly how far my claim on you goes.”
I try to push him away, but it’s useless. He’s a wall of muscle, immovable.
“You don’t own me,” I spit at him, venom dripping from every word. Fuck him. “You don’t get to meet your future bride behind my back and then pretend like nothing is wrong.”
I’m shaking with anger now. With hurt. With everything I’ve been trying not to feel.
He lets out a mocking laugh, sharp and humorless. “Is that what this is about?” he asks. “You really believe I met with them behind your back?”
“I don’t care what you do,” I snap, even though it’s a lie that tastes bitter on my tongue. Why does he have to make it sound like it’s nothing?
“I care,” he hisses. “Do you think I didn’t tell you because I was considering his proposal?”
I look away. I hate how easily he strips me bare, how exposed he makes me feel without even touching me.
“Eyes here.”
His grip tightens in my hair, forcing my head back until I’m staring straight into his beautiful, ruthless eyes.
“I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to put more weight on your shoulders,” he says, his voice raw. “I know how fucking hard it is for you, knowing that another woman might even be involved.”
He releases my hair, and the loss of his touch feels wrong.
“And do you want to know what the fuck hurts me, Serena?” he continues, anger vibrating beneath his control.
I don’t. I really don’t. But he doesn’t wait for an answer.
“It fucking hurts that after everything, you still doubt my loyalty to you.”
He steps back, putting distance between us, and I already miss his scent, his heat, his presence.
“It fucking hurts that after chasing you like a fucking lost puppy, after eating every crumb you gave me like a starved dog, you still think there’s someone else in my life.”
His voice drops into a growl as he closes the distance again.
“You walk me on a leash whenever you want,” he says. “You tell me to sit, and I fucking sit. You tell me to stay, and I fucking stay.”
His eyes burn into mine.
“And then you have the fucking audacity to doubt my loyalty?”
The way he says it makes something ugly and guilty twist in my chest. But fuck him.
“You don’t get to play the hurt one!” I shout. “You broke up with me, killed my father, and then shattered my heart into pieces!”
His jaw tightens. I can see him fighting the urge to shout back, to explode. When he speaks, his voice is rough, restrained, dangerous.
“That’s exactly why I’m doing this,” he snaps. “Why I’m swallowing my pride. Why I’m trying to make it right with you.”
He exhales hard, tension coiled tight in his body.
“So tell me,” he says, voice breaking just enough to be dangerous, “why it’s so fucking hard for you to believe that you’re the only thing I want?”
And that’s the worst part.
Because I believe him.
Tears come fast, hot and uncontrollable.
“I hate you,” I shout at him, my voice breaking. It’s not clever. It’s not sharp. It’s all I have left. I let my feelings take over because I can’t hold them back anymore.
He steps closer.
“You hate me, huh?” he asks darkly, and suddenly my certainty falters. The way he makes me feel is unbearable. I hate him because he makes me feel too much.
“I hate you for everything,” I cry. “I hate that you destroyed us. I hate that you’re still under my skin. And I hate that even when I try my best to forget you, I can’t.”
He closes the distance completely. His eyes are deadly, unblinking.
“Let me see those beautiful eyes, love.”
My body obeys before my mind does. I lift my chin to meet his gaze.
And then it happens so fast I barely register it.
Fabric tears. The sound is sharp, violent. My dress is ripped apart, the remains hanging uselessly off my shoulders, clinging to me like a torn cardigan. My bare breasts are exposed, my skin cold, vulnerable. I didn’t wear a bra. I didn’t think I’d need one.
I’m left standing there in nothing but my lace thong.
My breath stutters.
He leans in, his mouth close to my ear, his voice a whisper that feels like a command.
“Good,” he murmurs, almost amused. “Now show me how much you hate me.”
Before I can react, his hands are at my hips. My panties are gone in a second, ripped away and shoved into his pocket like a trophy.
And then I’m bare.
Exposed.
At his mercy.
And the most terrifying part is that my body doesn’t fight it the way my mind wants to.
And then I slap him. Hard.
His gaze meets mine and he smirks. He actually smirks. Any thought about how the hell I’m supposed to leave this place when I’m completely naked disappears the moment I crash my lips against his.
I feel his mouth curve into a smile against mine. Of course he knew this was going to happen. Apparently, I’m fucking predictable, and he already came prepared with his way of dealing with my tantrums. Which usually ends with me satisfied and full of him.
“Shut up,” I hiss against his lips.
His hand comes down on my ass. Hard. Just as hard as I slapped him.
Then he kisses me hungrily, like he’s been starving. He grabs my hair, taking full control, forcing my head back just enough to deepen the kiss. Our tongues explore each other, collide, dance, and I hear him groan low in his throat as I feel him harden against me.
His other hand grips my ass possessively while he bites my lower lip.
I moan.
“You’re lucky you’re pregnant, love,” he tells me, another hard spank landing against my ass.
“Otherwise, I’d have you bent over, fucking you raw until all you could see was me.
I’d spank your ass until it finally sank in, until you understood exactly what the fuck you mean to me.
And I wouldn’t use my hand,” he adds quietly, “but my belt.”
I get wetter at the memory. The first time I knew he would be my downfall. The night I was late and he punished me with his belt, spanking me while playing with my pussy until I was desperate for his touch, shaking and begging.
“Make no mistake,” he says quietly, control threading every word, “I don’t forget bad behavior, especially yours. I’ll remember it long after you give birth.”
His hand slips between my legs, his thumb finding my clit, drawing a broken gasp from me as pleasure crashes through my body.