19. Elise
— ? —
Elise
I don’t know why I kiss him.
Maybe it’s the honesty, the brutal, unflinching honesty that’s so different from Simon’s smooth deflections. Maybe it’s the rage still churning in my chest, looking for an outlet. Maybe I’m just so tired of feeling powerless, and this is the one thing I can control.
Whatever the reason, my mouth crashes into his with a force that surprises us both.
He freezes for a split second. Then his hands are in my hair, and he’s kissing me back with a desperation that matches my own.
This isn’t tender. This isn’t sweet. This is teeth and tongues and barely-contained fury, all the anger and betrayal and confusion of the past twenty-four hours pouring out through the only channel I can find.
“Elise…” He pulls back slightly, breathing hard. “What are you…”
“Don’t talk.” I fist my hands in his shirt. “I don’t want to talk anymore. I don’t want to think. I just want…”
I don’t finish the sentence. I don’t have to.
He searches my face for a moment, looking for something, permission maybe, or understanding. Whatever he finds there makes his expression shift.
“Inside,” he says roughly. “Now.”
We barely make it to his room.
The door slams behind us, and then we’re tearing at each other’s clothes with an urgency that borders on violence. His shirt goes first, then mine. My bra gets tangled and he just rips it, the sound of tearing fabric loud in the quiet cabin.
“That was expensive,” I gasp.
“I’ll buy you a new one.” His mouth finds my neck, biting down just hard enough to make me cry out. “I’ll buy you a hundred.”
“I don’t want your money.” I shove him backward onto the bed. “I want you to shut up and fuck me.”
Something flares in his eyes. Surprise, maybe, or heat. “Is that what this is?”
“This is me taking something I want.” I climb onto the bed, straddling him, pinning his wrists above his head. “For once in my goddamn life, I’m taking instead of giving. Any objections?”
“None.” His voice is strained. “Not a single one.”
I lean down and bite his bottom lip, harder than necessary. He groans, his hips arching up against mine.
“Good.”
I shove him to the bed. I get on top of him, my knees touching his hips, and I pin his wrists above his head with my fist. My skirt is already bunched at my waist. I don’t waste time.
I hook my fingers into my underwear and yank them hard to the side, then grab the condom from his jeans on the floor, tear it open, and roll it down his cock in one rough stroke.
He’s hard enough that it jumps in my grip.
I line him up and drop down on him in one rough, deep thrust.
The stretch burns. I grind my teeth and take it anyway, sinking all the way until my ass meets his thighs and his cock is buried inside my cunt. For a second I just stay there, breathing through the fullness, letting every inch of him fill me up.
He lifts one hand, slow and careful, like he might touch my face or brush my hair back. I slam it back down to the mattress and lean my full weight on both of his wrists.
“No,” I tell him, voice low and sharp. “You don’t get to make this soft. You stay right here.”
He nods, jaw tight, and lets his arms go loose under my hands. I start to move.
I ride him hard and mean from the first stroke.
Short, brutal snaps of my hips, fucking myself down onto his cock like I’m trying to break something.
The bed shifts under us. I don’t slow down.
I grind on every downstroke, rolling my clit against the base of him, chasing the friction that feels like it’s carving the rage out of me instead of giving me pleasure.
My pussy is wet enough that it makes filthy, wet sounds every time I slam down.
Rowan’s breathing gets heavier. His hips twitch upward on instinct. I press his wrists harder into the mattress and slam down on him again.
“I said stay still,” I grind out. “I’m using you. That’s all this is.”
He forces his hips flat. Good.
I let go of one wrist just long enough to rake my nails down the center of his chest, hard and deliberate.
Four red lines bloom immediately across his skin.
He shudders underneath me, cock twitching deep inside my cunt, but he keeps his hands where I put them.
I drag my nails over the same marks again, deeper this time, then lean forward and bite his bottom lip sharp enough to make him flinch.
I suck on the spot right after, tasting blood, and sit back up to keep riding.
His chest is already marked up and I’m not done with it.
I ride him faster, bouncing now, thighs burning as I take every inch of him over and over.
Every time his body tries to meet me or his hands shift even an inch, I snatch them back up and pin them harder, using his arms for leverage as I fuck myself on his cock.
“You’re just letting me,” I tell him between gritted teeth. “That’s all you’re doing.”
I lean down again and press my mouth to his, but it’s not a kiss. I bite his lip once more, meaner this time, and grind down hard while I do it. He makes a low sound in his throat that he can’t quite swallow. I swallow it instead and sit up, never breaking rhythm.
The pressure inside me is ugly and sharp. I chase it. I grind in tight, punishing circles, rubbing my clit against him with every drop of my hips. My thighs shake. My nails dig into his wrists now, biting into skin. I bounce harder, using the full weight of my body to slam him into me.
It builds fast and vicious.
I come with no warning and no grace. My pussy locks down around his cock in hard, furious pulses.
The orgasm tears through me and cracks open in the middle.
A raw, choking sob rips out of my throat before I can stop it.
Another follows right after, wet and ugly, as the rage finally spills out through the pleasure.
Tears burn hot and sudden down my face. I keep grinding through it anyway, sobbing and shaking on his cock, cunt still clenching and squeezing him in desperate, broken waves.
Rowan jerks beneath me, a rough broken noise catching in his chest, and comes right after, cock pulsing deep inside my cunt as he fills the condom. His hips buck once under my weight before he forces them still again, wrists still pinned flat to the bed where I put them.
I stay on top of him, trembling, still crying, still moving in small, wrecked rolls of my hips like I don’t know how to stop.
His arms come around me, holding me while I fall apart.
“I’m still angry at you,” I say eventually. My voice is hoarse from crying.
“I know.”
“That didn’t change anything.”
“I know that too.”
I push myself up onto my elbows, looking down at him. His face is flushed, his hair a disaster, scratch marks visible on his chest. He looks thoroughly used.
Good.
“I meant what I said earlier. About not knowing if I can trust you.” I keep my voice steady, even though my heart is still racing. “This doesn’t mean I’ve forgiven you. It doesn’t mean I’ve decided anything.”
“I understand.”
“Do you? Because men have a tendency to interpret sex as absolution. I fuck them, so everything must be fine now.” I sit up fully, wrapping the sheet around myself. “That’s not what this was.”
“Then what was it?”
“I don’t know.” I shrug. “A release valve. A way of burning off energy I didn’t know what else to do with. Maybe just me proving to myself that I still have agency.” I meet his eyes. “But it wasn’t forgiveness. And it wasn’t a promise.”
“Okay.”
“That’s it? Just ‘okay’?”
“What do you want me to say?” He sits up too, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “I’m not going to pretend I understand what just happened. I’m not going to assume it means more than it does. I’m just… here. For whatever you need.”
“What if what I need is for you to be someone you’re not? Someone who didn’t watch my marriage fall apart and say nothing?”
“Then you’ll be disappointed.” His voice is quiet. “Because I can’t change what I did. I can only try to be better going forward.”
“You always have the right sentence ready. That’s the problem.”
“It’s all I have.”
I stare at him, this man who keeps saying the right things, who keeps being patient and understanding and exactly what I want him to be.
And I hate it.
I hate that he’s making this hard. I hate that I can’t just write him off the way I wrote off Simon. I hate that even after everything, part of me still wants to believe in him.
“I need to shower,” I say, standing abruptly. “Alone.”
“Okay.”
“Stop saying okay like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re fine with everything. Like nothing I do could possibly bother you.” I grab my discarded clothes from the floor. “It’s unnerving.”
“Would you prefer I threw a tantrum? Demanded to know what this meant for us?” He shakes his head.
“I’m not Simon, Elise. I’m not going to try to control the narrative or manage your feelings.
You get to be angry. You get to be confused.
You get to take what you need and give nothing back, at least for now. ”
“And if I never give anything back? If I decide I can’t do this?”
“Then I’ll survive.” His voice is steady, but I catch something in his eyes, a flicker of fear he can’t quite hide. “It’ll hurt like hell, but I’ll survive.”
There’s no answer to that. So I don’t give one.
I just leave.
***
The shower is scalding, and I stand under it until my skin turns pink.
My body aches in places that remind me of what we just did. My mind keeps replaying it: the roughness, the desperation, the way I used him to burn through emotions I didn’t know how to process.
I’ve never had sex like that before.
With Simon, it was always… polite. Scheduled, almost. We’d kiss for an appropriate amount of time, touch in predictable patterns, finish in comfortable positions. It was fine. Perfectly adequate.
I didn’t know I wanted something else until Rowan.
But wanting him doesn’t mean I can trust him. And not trusting him doesn’t mean I’ll stop wanting.
It’s exhausting, this constant war between my head and my body.
I stay in the shower until the water runs cold.
***
When I finally emerge, dressed in clean clothes with my hair still damp, I find Rowan in the kitchen making lunch. He’s wearing a different shirt, the marks I left are hidden under this one, and moving with a forced casualness that tells me he’s just as unsettled as I am.
“Hungry?” he asks without turning around.
“Not really.”
“You should eat anyway. You didn’t have breakfast.”
“Are you keeping track of my meals now?”
“I’m keeping track of everything.” He turns to face me. “It’s what I do when I’m worried about someone.”
“I don’t need you to worry about me.”
“Tough. It’s happening anyway.” He sets a sandwich on the counter between us. “Eat. Please.”
I should refuse on principle. Should maintain the distance I’ve been trying to create.
Instead, I pick up the sandwich and take a bite.
It’s good. Ham and cheese with some kind of spicy mustard, the bread perfectly toasted. Simon never made me food. We’ve lived together for years, and I can’t remember him ever just… making me a sandwich.
“Thank you,” I say grudgingly.
“You’re welcome.”
We eat in silence. It should be awkward, and it isn’t. Just two people sharing a meal, the weight of everything unsaid hanging between them.
“The roads should be clear tomorrow,” Rowan says eventually. “We can leave in the morning.”
“And go where?”
“Wherever you want. I can drive you to the train station. Or to a hotel. Or…” He hesitates. “Or you could stay with me. For a while. While you figure things out.”
“Stay with you.”
“I have a guest room. You wouldn’t have to… we wouldn’t have to…” He runs a hand through his hair. “I’m not suggesting anything. I’m just offering a place to land. If you need one.”
“That’s very generous.”
“It’s practical. You need somewhere to go. I have space.” He shrugs. “No strings attached.”
No strings attached. From the man who’s told me multiple times that he loves me.
“I’ll think about it,” I say.
“That’s all I’m asking.”
I finish my sandwich and retreat to my room.
***
That night, I lie awake again.
But this time, instead of replaying Simon’s betrayals, I’m thinking about Rowan.
About the way he let me use him without complaint. The way he didn’t try to turn it into something meaningful, didn’t demand reassurance or commitment or any of the things men usually demand after sex.
About the fear I glimpsed behind his careful composure. The knowledge that he could lose me, and the acceptance that he’d survive if he did.
About the scratch marks on his chest, and the way he shuddered when I bit his lip, and the sound he made when he came.
I want him. That much is undeniable.
But want isn’t the same as trust. And trust isn’t something I can manufacture just because it would make things easier.
Around midnight, I get out of bed.
I don’t plan what I’m going to do. I just find myself walking down the hall, stopping outside his door.
I could knock. Could go in and let my body override my brain again.
Or I could go back to my room. Could maintain the boundaries I keep trying to set.
I stand there, paralyzed by indecision, one hand half-raised to knock.
Then his door opens.
He’s shirtless, hair mussed from sleep, expression cautious. “I heard you.”
“I wasn’t being quiet.”
“No. You weren’t.” He leans against the doorframe. “What do you need?”
“I don’t know.” The admission comes out small, vulnerable. “I don’t know anything anymore.”
“That’s okay.”
“It’s not okay. I hate not knowing. I hate feeling like this.” My voice cracks. “I hate that I want you even though I don’t trust you. I hate that you’re being so patient when I keep expecting you to snap. I hate that nothing makes sense and I can’t find solid ground anywhere.”
“Solid ground is overrated.” He reaches out, brushes a strand of hair from my face. “Sometimes you just have to float for a while.”
“I’m tired of floating.”
“I know.” His hand cups my cheek, warm and steady. “But you don’t have to float alone.”
I should pull away. Should go back to my room and put distance between us.
Instead, I step forward.
His arms close around me, holding me against his bare chest. I can hear his heartbeat, steady and strong. Can feel the warmth of his skin, the solidity of his body.
It’s not forgiveness. It’s not trust.
But it’s something.
“Can I stay here tonight?” I whisper. “Just to sleep. Nothing else.”
“You can stay as long as you want.”
He leads me to his bed, pulls back the covers, lets me crawl in beside him. We lie there in the dark, not touching except where our shoulders brush.
It’s not enough. It’s not nothing.
It’s a beginning.
Or maybe an ending.
I’m too tired to figure out which.