Chapter 30 You’re Mine, Amelie
You’re Mine, Amelie
— O NE W EEK TO A MELIE’S W EDDING —
I stumble past the door and slam it closed behind me. “Frank?” I shout as I drag myself through the corridor.
Tonight’s conversation is still echoing in my ears. I spent the better part of an hour of my birthday-meets-bachelorette party hearing about how romantic it is to be engaged. How Trevor and Ryan can’t keep their hands off Martha and Barb most of the time. How it’s like they’ve gone back to their first year together.
Frank and I haven’t slept together since before our engagement. I figured things would get better when he came back for Christmas, then I told myself we’d be okay once he moved back in, but neither thing has happened. Winter is almost over, the wedding is approaching, and still… nothing. He also forgot today’s my birthday, but I’m much more concerned about marrying a man who doesn’t love me or want me. The several bottles of wine the girls and I drank aren’t helping either.
I enter the dark bedroom and climb on the bed. It’s much easier when I’m sober, and I almost plummet to the floor twice before I squeeze Frank’s shoulder. “Frank?”
“Hmm?”
“Wake up.”
He opens his eyes and sucks a quick breath in. “What is it? Is everything okay?”
“Yeah. I just got back. We need to have sex.”
His eyes squint even more. “What?”
I move my leg over until I’m sitting on top of him, then press my lips to his, sticking my tongue in his mouth.
“Hmm—wait. Wait, Ames.”
“What is it?” I ask, reaching down for my dress and pulling it up.
When it gets stuck over my face, he pulls it back down. “You’re drunk. You know I don’t like to have sex when—”
“It’s fine, Frank. I’m your fiancée.” I lean down, kissing him again, but his hands press on my chest until I’m lifted off him.
“Still, I don’t think—”
“We haven’t had sex in months,” I say, slapping my thigh in frustration as I sit back on his legs. “ Months , Frank.”
“That’s not true. We—we did it when…”
His eyes wander left and right as he thinks, and I’d like to tell him that if he struggles to remember how long ago it was, it was probably too long, but instead I say, “Seven months ago.”
He sighs. “Okay, look, I’m sorry. And I swear I’ll do better, but I’ve been away most of the time, Ames.”
I nod, a lump forming in my throat. I know the drill. He’s away, and when he’s here, he’s tired, stressed, busy. “The time to do better is over,” I whisper. “We’re getting married in a week, Frank. How can we do it when we’re not even in a relationship anymore?”
He rubs his eyes, blinking again and again. “Do we need to discuss this at”—he presses on the screen of his phone—“two thirty in the morning?”
“Are you still attracted to me?” I ask.
When he drops back onto the pillow with a groan, I stifle one myself. It’s like I’m going crazy. Am I the only one seeing all of this? All these signs of something being deeply wrong between us? Because Frank acts like it’s all in my head. Like he’s trying his best to keep up with my crazy mood shifts and unrealistic expectations. Does he not see how everything’s different now?
“Jesus, Ames. Yes, I am.”
“Then let’s have sex,” I insist.
“Tomorrow, okay?”
“No, no,” I whine, a mountain of anxiety taking over my chest. I’m getting married in a week to a man who won’t touch me. Who won’t speak to me. Who doesn’t love me. And I’ve given up the best man in the world—my best friend—for him. “Now. Please, Frank.” I cling to his shirt, pleadingly staring into his eyes. “Fuck me.”
His jaw tightens, and with a swift motion he pushes me to one side and stands. “Jesus Christ, Ames. Quit acting like a desperate drunk.”
My limbs turn to stone as I land on the other side of the bed and I watch him turn the light on.
“You know I don’t like it when you say shit like that. You’re my fiancée. My wife, soon enough. Not a fucking whore.” He fits into a pair of jeans he grabs from the side table, then fetches a shirt from the dresser, huffing and puffing his annoyance. “Two thirty in the morning, Ames. And I have a work call in five hours.”
“I don’t care about your work!” I shout as I step off the bed and follow him. “All I’m asking is fifteen minutes of your time, Frank. It’s been seven months—seven!”
“Look at you!” he shouts back once we reach the corridor. He turns to me, the spiteful look in his eyes stabbing me like a knife. “Look at the way you’re behaving! It’s the middle of the night, and I’m not having this argument with you right now. Not when you’re drunk and acting like a damn psycho.”
He stalks to the door. Burning with hot rage, I continue to pursue him. “Where are you going?”
“I’m leaving.”
“No you’re not!”
“Fucking watch me,” he barks.
“If you do, don’t bother coming back,” I say in a hushed breath.
I am done .
If Frank’s done, I’m done too.
He reaches the door, then stops and turns to me with a pained expression. He looks like he’s about to say something apologetic, but then he just snarls, “Fuck this shit,” and opens the door and slams it behind him.
I get back into bed and hug my knees, burying my face against them. My mind can’t process coherent thoughts. I’m overtaken by nausea, my head thumping with pain and my heartbeat rising with each passing moment of silence.
Frank must have gone to his parents’ place, a few blocks away.
As I sob, hugging my pillow, I try to wrap my head around it. Frank and I just broke up. It happened, and it was so anticlimactic, it almost doesn’t feel real. You’d expect, after fifteen years, that we’d have a huge fight lasting for days. That we’d cry and scream for hours, throw plates and glasses at the wall or something.
But he just left. And now it’s over.
Violent anger takes hold of me.
He just left. If that’s what he wanted to do, then why not leave before? Why did he put me through the past six months if it was all meant to end like this anyway?
The ring around my finger feels heavy, a foreign object. Pulling at it with the other hand, I slide it off and set it on the nightstand, sniffling.
It doesn’t feel any more real. It doesn’t fill me with sadness, either, because I can’t focus on a thought long enough. I dread the wedding I’ll have to cancel, then think of our apartment: Who’s going to keep it? I picture the way he fixes his glasses, and it makes my heart squeeze, then I imagine him talking about what he needs and want to rip my hair out.
It’s too silent in here. Empty and silent and miserable.
Sitting up, I look at my phone on the nightstand. I shouldn’t. It’s been almost two months, so Ian probably moved on, but if I call and he has enough pity left in him to answer, it’ll set him back. I shouldn’t but, fuck, I want to.
I miss him so much. I think about him every day—hell, every damn minute. I haven’t been able to delete a single message or image, hanging on to them with every pathetic shred of myself, scrolling through them whenever I get the time.
I miss him, and I’m drunk, and I’m throwing myself a pity party he’s definitely invited to, so I scurry up and grab my phone. My fingers shake with adrenaline as I press his contact and the call button.
Beep .
It’s late, so he must be asleep. But he’s the one who always said, If you text me, I’ll wake up. I guess that applies to phone calls too. Right?
Beep .
“Amelie?”
My breath catches in my throat. His voice is groggy, raspy, so he was definitely sleeping. And it immediately soothes me, my body relaxing against the cold wall.
“Amelie? Are you okay?”
“I’m okay,” I whisper. I can barely talk with the way the thumps of my heart are making my whole body shake.
“You don’t sound okay.”
I walk to the bed and slowly sit, as if any sudden movement could break the balance of this reality in which I’m talking to Ian again. “It’s my birthday. Well, it was until midnight.”
Silence. Then: “Happy birthday.”
My lips twitch with a smile that dies out in a second.
“Did you have a good day?”
“Yeah. The girls took me out for drinks.”
“Just the girls? No Frank?”
I swallow. “Just the girls. It was also my bachelorette party.”
“Sounds like it wasn’t too fun.”
“It was.” I smile lightly at the memory of fluorescent drinks and penis-shaped cookies. “I just… Frank and I… we had a fight.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing,” I say, the tremble in my voice betraying me. “I was drunk, and he was sleeping. I woke him up, and—”
“And?”
“He—” I choke on the next words.
I hear the sound of a light switch. “Amelie? Did he hurt you? Did he do something you didn’t consent to?”
A burst of laughter explodes past my lips. It’s not funny, of course, that he’s worried about something like that. But the truth is so far from it, it’s almost comical.
“Don’t laugh,” he bellows. “I was about to vomit.”
“Sorry,” I say, looking down at the blue duvet. “It’s… just the very opposite.”
“Oh.” He clears his voice. “He still won’t…?”
“No.”
He mumbles something I don’t understand, but before I can ask, he continues. “Are you sure he’s not gay?”
“No, he’s not gay. He’s straight. Just not into me.”
“The only straight people I know who wouldn’t be into you are women.”
I chuckle, my mouth filling with saliva as a sudden burst of nausea makes its way past my stomach and through my throat. Taking a deep breath, I let myself fall back on the bed and stare at the ceiling. “You know how long it’s been since I’ve had sex, Ian?”
“No, Amelie.”
“About seven months.”
There’s an “ Oof ,” then a few moments of silence. “You’re climbing up the walls, aren’t you?”
“I am. Especially because…” I think of the last time we had sex. “He… he mostly stopped trying.”
“Mm-hmm. Can’t say I’m too surprised.” He sighs. “So you fake it?”
“Sometimes. When I don’t, he tells me to finish myself.” My lips pinch, the thought causing a new wave of rage to course through me. “Sometimes I masturbate, but it’s not the same thing. It’s not the orgasm but the intimacy I miss the most.”
When I’m met by complete silence, I feel my cheeks flush.
“Sorry. TMI?”
“No, not too much information. It’s not enough, actually.” He clears his throat, and there’s a little swooshing noise. I picture him lying down in his bed, the light on his nightstand on and a sleepy expression on his face. “I just… There’s a lot I’d like to say to that. I won’t, don’t worry, but—”
“No, say it.”
“Hmm… I can’t.”
“You can,” I insist.
“Fine. I may have occasionally , once or twice, considered sleeping with you.”
I can feel a smile curving my lips.
“And it’s not the thought of what I’d get out of it that makes it an interesting scenario. It’s what I’d do to you, how you’d respond, that makes it—” He clears his throat again. “Let’s just say that knowing someone would use you for your body with no consideration for your needs and enjoyment is a fucking sin. A waste and a sin.” With a sigh, he adds, “I’ll leave it at that.”
I open my mouth, though I’m not entirely sure what to say. I just want him to keep talking.
“Well, okay, I’ll say one more thing. It’s not fair that you should spend the rest of your life faking orgasms. Your fiancé should take care of your pleasure, among many other things.”
Among many other things he doesn’t do. That’s what Ian thinks, and he’s right. Frank is supposed to support me, to be there for me. And he’s not. He’s living his single life while I’m always alone. Except, once again, I’m not really alone. “If you’re about to suggest I break up with him—” I start, but he quickly cuts me off.
“No, Amelie. I’m suggesting you get his ass back there, sit him down, and tell him you won’t let him touch you ever again unless he considers your needs. I’m suggesting you tell your fiancé that if he doesn’t pull his act together, he’s going to lose you. And he won’t manage to win you back.” He lets out a disdainful humph . “It’s inexplicable how he landed you in the first place.”
“Maybe,” I whisper. Right now, talking to Frank is the last thing I want to do. “Maybe tomorrow.”
“It’s your birthday, Amelie,” Ian insists, and with a chuckle adds, “and you deserve a fucking orgasm.”
My head feels light as the room spins around me, and for a second I smile up at the ceiling. Maybe at the absurdity of the situation. “You’re right. I deserve an orgasm.”
“Yes, you do,” he insists.
Standing, I walk to my wardrobe, open my underwear-and-socks drawer, fish around, and grab my vibrator. Once I’m back on the bed, my heart is throbbing out of my chest. I’m not drunk enough to blame this on the alcohol: I think I just lost my mind.
Or, rather, I’m finally making sense.
“Do you think I could… do it?”
“Do what?”
“Make myself come.”
Silence. I wait, my hand tightly wrapped against the small pink silicone bullet. If he says no, I’ll die of embarrassment.
“You want to… now?”
“Yes,” I breathe out.
“With me?”
“Yes.”
“Here? On the phone?”
“Y-yes?”
“Oh. Yeah. Yeah, of course—” He sighs. “Wait, no, Amelie, you’re drunk. Tomorrow—”
“I don’t care about tomorrow.”
“Right now. But Frank—”
“Please, Ian,” I say in a low voice as I tighten my hold on the vibrator. “Don’t think about Frank, or what happens tomorrow, or…” I let out a quick puff of air. “It’s just you and me and right now. Tomorrow this will probably be a bad idea, but… right now, me and you? Is it a bad idea?”
“No. You and I are never a bad idea,” he says in a husky voice that sends a wave of pressure down into my stomach. With a groan, he insists, “Amelie, don’t tempt me. I don’t have the strength to resist you.”
“Is that you trying to change my mind?” I laugh. “Because the thought of being irresistible to you is more than a little hot.”
“So is the thought of you masturbating. We’re even.”
“Ian…” I whisper.
“Don’t say whatever you’re about to say.”
“I’m wet.”
He groans, then sighs, then groans again for good measure.
“Your voice makes me wet. You make me—”
“Jesus Christ,” he breathes. “Stop saying the word ‘wet.’?”
“How about ‘drenched’?” I let my hand slide down my stomach. “I can check.”
“Amelie,” he whispers reverently. With a winning smile, I let my hand wander farther down, until his voice breaks through the silence again. “No, wait—wait, Amelie.”
“Ian, I promise—”
“Listen to me,” he says, cutting me off. “Feeling undesirable sucks. I understand you need someone to make you feel wanted. And I want you, Amelie. I want you so much, my cock hurts. I want you so much, my everything hurts. I want you so fucking much that when I end this call, I’ll have some intense sex with my hand and come so hard my soul will leave my body.” He barely pauses to breathe before saying, “But I also care about you. I care about you too much to disrupt your life. Not when you’re drunk and emotionally spent. So I’ll end the call now.”
“Ian!” I blurt out as I sit up. “Wait! Frank—he left.”
“What?”
“I just—I knew you’d have questions, and I’m…” I swallow. What’s a classy way to say horny, drunk, and depressed ? “I didn’t want to talk about it.”
“Wait. Wait, wait, wait. Hold on.” I do, but he says nothing for a while. “You’re single?”
“Yes,” I whisper, though it still feels unreal. “I guess I am.”
“You’re single. Right now,” he repeats.
“Yes.”
There’re a few seconds of silence. Maybe he thinks I’m lying and this is just a ruse to get what I want. Maybe the fact that I’ve been single for five minutes doesn’t change anything.
“Spread your legs.”
“I—what?” I ask, my heart jumping up in my throat.
“Spread your legs, Amelie. Tell me if you’re drenched.”
Fuck.
I lie back down, eyes wide and chest heaving. He didn’t ask questions. He understood and… well, put my needs above his, because I’m sure he’d like to have about a million clarifications.
My hand slips under my panties, finding the pool of my arousal. I gasp lightly as the tip of my finger grazes my clit, then quickly release a breath. “Yes,” I whisper. “I’m soaked.”
“Fuck yeah, you are,” he rasps. “Touch yourself, Amelie. I’ve dreamed of hearing you moan in my ear so many fucking times.”
My breath hitches, my body arching over the bed as if his words are actually touching me. After sliding my underwear down my thighs, I turn the vibrator on, then slowly move it over my clit. “I wish you were here,” I breathe.
“God, me too.”
“I wish you were inside me.”
He groans, and it’s by far the most erotic noise I’ve ever heard. The thought that I did that to him and I’m not even there… I spread my legs wider, whining as my hips writhe against the vibrator.
“Fuck,” he says in a coarse voice. “I want to be buried so deep inside you that there’s not an inch of space between us—fucking you so hard, you can’t kiss me back while you come all over me.”
“Jesus Christ, Ian.”
“TMI?”
“Not enough,” I whimper, images of everything he just described dancing before my eyes. The feeling of fullness with him inside me, his eyes turning into slits as I clamp my legs around him, feel his hands gripping my hips.
“God, you sound spectacular.”
So does he, with his raspy, breathy voice. With the way he’s fanning quick and shallow breaths over the phone. I can picture them against my neck, against my inner thighs.
“Don’t stop, Amelie,” he encourages me. “Use your fingers and imagine they’re mine. That I’m sucking your clit and fucking you with my hand.”
“Oh, God.” I do as he asked, letting the vibrator fall to the side. Tightening my hold on the phone, I begin thrusting two fingers inside me, my body squirming with every jolt of pleasure.
“That’s it. Just like that.”
“Ian?” I ask as I use my thumb to press my clit. I bet he’d be so much better at it.
“Yes, beautiful?”
“Are you doing it too?” I ask. Though I know the answer, I want to hear him say it.
“I almost came twice already.”
I chuckle, tilting my head as if I’m cuddling up to him instead of a stupid phone.
“Your laugh is as good as your moans, Amelie.”
“Tell me where you are, what you’re doing, what you’re wearing. Everything.”
He exhales, then clears his voice. “I’m sitting on my bed, and I’m wearing black joggers. No shirt because I’m always warm at night. I’m touching myself as slowly as I possibly can without stopping, because I don’t want to come before you do, and this is by far the most turned on I’ve ever been in my life.” He lets out a shaky breath. “But I’m always up for a challenge.”
“If I were there,” I whisper, and before I even get the words out, he breathes harder, “I would lick the tip of your cock.”
“Oh, fuck…”
“And I’d taste your precum.”
“I’d smear your gorgeous lips with it.”
“I—I would take all of you in my mouth,” I continue, though with the rhythm of my fingers inside me and my thumb over my clit, my voice comes out all shaky.
“I’d push it all the way to the back of your throat and hold you there until you needed to breathe.”
Pressure building in my stomach, I whimper. Ian’s breathing turns even more erratic, and once he moans again, I grab my vibrator and push it against my clit. “Ian, Ian…”
“Oh, not my name,” he mutters. “I can’t take it, Amelie.”
“I’m going to come. I’m gonna come so hard,” I pant as my mind empties and my stomach fills.
“Picture me fucking you, Amelie. Hard and fast, stretching you. God, I need to fuck you.”
“Yes, yes—I need you, Ian. I—” My eyes roll back, and my mouth opens, but no sound comes out. The pleasure is just so strong, it’s like my whole body freezes for the most intense couple of seconds.
“Squeeze me inside you, Amelie. Come all over me,” he gasps. “Let me hear you orgasm.”
Something snaps, and I let out a loud string of pleas and obscene noises, every single working cell in my body lighting me up from the inside.
“Yes, Amelie, holy fuck—”
We both moan, call each other’s names. It’s so earth-shattering, it almost hurts as the vibrations hit my clit again and again, but I don’t stop. I don’t want this orgasm, this moment, to ever stop.
“You’re mine, Amelie,” he growls. I picture his cum gushing out and over his hands as he strokes his erection for me. “Your pleasure is mine. Your orgasms are mine. You’re all… fucking… mine .”
My climax keeps rippling out; his too. Maybe it’s the booze, but it feels longer than normal. Surely, it’s a million times better than normal.
“You belong to me, Amelie. Only to me.”
I close my eyes, focusing on the tingling warmth coursing through me at his claim. At feeling wanted and precious and someone worth fighting for.
Until out of my lips, again and again, comes the same word.
Yes. Yes. Yes.