Chapter 19 #4
I was inside the hotel room, standing in front of the floor-length mirror, my eyes grazing over my appearance.
My mascara had left black tracks down my cheeks and my lipstick had rubbed off.
I looked a sight. A dreadful one. My shoulders were bony, my breasts smaller than they’d ever been.
My eyes looked vacant. Having your life stolen does that to you.
I looked ready for the reaper's collection, ready to sleep forever.
. . but at least my dress was pretty. I clutched at the ruffles, stretching them to see the intricate details of beads and jewels as I twirled a little on my toes.
I kept my eyes on the dress, not the woman wearing it.
I had no interest in seeing a corpse dressed as a bride, dancing to the music that played in her head.
Woodrow's eyes burned me, heating me slightly. Even the cold could burn. But he wasn’t cold; he was warm, trying hard to get me to feel something other than fear and pain as he stared at me from behind, telling me how perfect I looked.
His fingers tipped my chin and mine opened, allowing the length of my dress to reach the thick carpet where my toes were curling.
My eyes followed his, roving over every inch of my body.
A hand landed on my hips. The light fear of rejection had him trembling against me, but he batted it away, remaining on me.
His tongue came out and wet his lips, moving slowly across their fullness, giving me something new to focus on.
“You still haven't told me why you didn't give me the mask.”
He swallowed, and said, “I told you. I told you that your pretty eyes still sparkle behind the sheen of fear. I told you that your smile, when you actually do smile, lights up this side of the world. I told you that you looked beautiful in your dress, and you twirled for me.”
I directed my gaze back to the pretty dress. “I’d have chosen a white dress.”
“Too boring for you. Everyone wears white. You’re one of a kind; you deserved something special.”
“I’m not special.”
“Hush, woman. You’re talking shit.” He drifted off, sitting at the edge of the bed to pull off his shiny black dress shoes.
“You’re special to me. I didn’t give you the mask because I wanted you to see what I see.
I don’t want you hiding from the world, not when you’ve been hidden from it for so long. ”
I didn’t know what to say, so I said the first thing that popped into my head, “Does your God approve of that language?”
He rolled his eyes at me. “He believes in forgiveness, I hope.” A quiet laugh slipped through his lips as he tossed his shoes into the distance, meeting mine in the center of the carpet.
I looked at the face in the mirror, not mine, his, as he stepped up behind me. . . so perfectly handsome. He was a cruel contrast as he leaned into me.
“I see a girl stronger than any other, with the prettiest hair—” Hair that he pulled completely away from my face, reapplying the flower pin that had grown loose to hold it back.
“And the most beautiful soul. Eyes that tell me stories, dark but beautiful, like the ones on your Kindle.” That kinda made me laugh.
. . laugh and then turn into him, my breath on his lips as he spoke again.
“I see the scars, and they bring me pain, yes, as much as they do you, but I don't see the unattractiveness you fear.
I see my little survivor. My heroine, who still cared for me when she'd been hurt by my hands. I see the girl I fell in love with ten years ago and the woman I’ll never get over.
I see you, Moonlight, your beautiful soul, your innocence, and your one-of-a-kind heart, and it's kept me alive for years.”
There was a brief second where he felt he’d said the wrong thing. . . like he didn’t think I’d want to hear those words. . . but he was wrong.
My fingers entwined with his, my mouth breathing into his, our lips brushing.
“I see you, too. I see all the pain, all the regret. I see a soul in turmoil, and a heart breaking. I see all facets of the diamond you are, some a little sharper than others. But I see them all, and I’m not afraid anymore.
” The statement didn’t feel like a lie, even if my courage would fade with the waning of alcohol.
I took his face in my hands and told him, “I'm sorry. For telling you I accept you, and then taking that acceptance back.”
“Don't be. I'm sorry my parents fucked me up so bad, my pain created monsters that hurt you.
Hell has been out of line. He's angry. .
. because of what happened to me in prison, because he couldn't save me.
He blames you because he can't get to anyone else to release that anger, and because you left.
He doesn't believe it's because I told you to; he still doesn’t understand what went on that night.
He's hurting because of you and for you, but he doesn't know how to deal with that kind of pain; he never knew any kind of love. He's heartbroken."
Woodrow's finger wiped the tear from my eye, the last I'd cry today.
“My strong, beautiful girl. You've survived Hell. . . and—"
“And so much worse.”
“A story for another time?”
I nodded, accepting the idea of keeping the darkness of the last ten years hidden.
Accepting that silence may have been the only way to keep Woodrow here.
What happened to me would hurt him. . . hurt him too much, and he'd hide from the pain.
And if Hell really cared for me, he'd manifest, intent on getting revenge.
I didn't want that.
I wanted this, the here and now, and the way Woodrow was looking at me, his twinkling eyes downcast and hungry as he lowered to give me a kiss. I stretched on my toes to meet him, eliminating a little strain on him.
“I missed you,” he tells me again.
“Show me. Show me how much.”
He lifted me into his arms, and kissed me harder. “Tomorrow, when you’re sober,” he whispered into my mouth, the words tasting ugly. “I want you willing. I want you so much. But I want you willing.”
“I am willing.” I tried to reach between us, between the fabric of too much clothing and the sexual tension, digging my way through both.
I found the zipper on his pants, then the button, and I shoved with one hand to get them down his legs, using my feet to assist me.
“Get them off.”
“Jolie, we. . .”
“Shut. Up. Now or never, Woodrow.” I felt I had the power to be demanding. “We have a lot of bad memories to replace,” I reminded him.
He blinked twice.
“If you’re in pain. If your throat hurts—” that was the only reason I’d stop.
“I’m okay,” he told me, but the words were almost silent. I wouldn’t have believed them if sober.
But I wasn’t sober.
So, I took what I wanted.
I slipped my hands into the boxer briefs that felt loose around his hips but not around his bulge, where the material was pulling. I wondered for a second if he’d lost weight. If he used to be more muscular than he’d become.
“I’m not in pain. No more than usual. I can handle it.”
His hands supported my weight, my legs wrapped around his waist. It was a challenge to touch him without ruffles invading the moment. “Get this off me,” I requested, yanking at the bodice.
“No, leave it on,” he said almost breathlessly through the kisses he was putting on my neck. “I want to fuck my wife in her wedding dress.”
He hiked up the fabric, holding it at my hips beneath his thumbs as his hands spread across my skin. I was still free of underwear, and my heat was begging the tip of his penis to edge inside me.
There was a delay while his eyes caught sight of the blood between my legs. There wasn’t much; my periods had been minimal and inconsistent for years now. After only two or three heavy days, there’d be hardly anything. Abuse had ruined the inside of my body, too, apparently.
“Are you okay to—”
I cut him off. “I’m fine. And you shouldn’t be squeamish, or the next time you read Hell’s diary, you’re gonna have some issues, if you guys still keep one.”
He looked at me like he was already having issues with what Hell might have done, but he didn’t waste time, positioning himself at my entrance.
“Consent is important to me.” He looked at me, waiting for a sneer that I’d have no doubt given yesterday. But when it didn’t come, he rubbed the head of his penis over my slit, the little balls nudging at my clit in a delicious way.
“I’m clean,” he told me. “I had checks while in prison and again afterwards.
“Did you have a thing for the prison nurse? Why would you need checks?” I wondered, praying I’d never have to wear a nurse uniform to get him off.
“No. I had to have checks for other reasons.” The short statement was a full sentence. The blurb of a story he wasn’t ready to tell.
“A story for another time?”
He blinked twice, tipping his head back as far as he could—which, in truth, wasn’t very far—trying to encourage the tears to stay in his eyes. When he looked back at me, the sheen was pretty. Gray became silver and shiny and beautiful.
I didn’t say I was sorry because he didn’t want to talk about it.
He was happy with the sounds of my arousal being the only thing he heard as something leaked onto his fingers and cock—be it my arousal, blood, or both, I wasn’t sure, and he didn’t look. His eyes were lost in mine as I moved closer, my lips pressing into his neck, gently.
“Go easy,” he pleaded, swallowing as I kissed.
He angled himself and pushed inside me. Because I was ready. Because I was soaking.
His feet moved us closer to the mirror. His eyes fixed on the reflection of us, of my body welcoming him, and of my ass, as he hiked my dress up a little higher.
I kissed his throat again, and he relaxed this time, leaning into me as his eyes enjoyed the view.
One hand left my body to smear the mirror. More support as I ground into him, swaying my hips to meet his thrusts as they picked up in pace.
Woodrow