18. Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Eighteen
Lola
T he shower was glorious.
Even though he was a champ and didn’t say anything, I think I might have over-baked my boyfriend a bit.
Wait… boyfriend?
When did I accept that as our thing?
I suppose it was somewhere in his declaration of love and opening up to me about his wants. A queen and a king, he said. We will definitely have to discuss the finer details of all of that as well. I’ve never been in a poly relationship. The idea is exciting but also terrifying.
Hopefully, he will handle all the flirting and such because I tend to be total shit at that. Darick used to say…
No.
No, I will not ruin my night with any more thoughts of him.
Beck did take to my whole info dump really well. He was comforting and clearly listened to everything I had to say—or maybe needed to say? As I think back to the conversation, I realize I told him a lot—more details than I gave anyone else, even Marina.
I can’t really say I’m surprised. Beck gives me this all-encompassing feeling of calm. Like I’m grounded when he’s around me. I feel… stronger.
Not that I usually feel weak. Not anymore.
I kicked that weak bitch to the curb when I grabbed my purse, my cell phone charger, and a box of pop tarts, and left that piece of shit slime and the house that was filled with the echoes of my torture.
Never again will I let myself be weak.
People say loving someone and being open with them is a weakness. Those people are fucking idiots. Do you know how hard I had to grab my lady balls to force out some of those words? To confess some of the things I went through?
It’s not a weakness; it takes strength. I was brave enough to take that deep breath and finally tell someone that for the last year of being with someone, I still crawled into bed with them at night, knowing that they would rape me. That didn’t change after the vows. Funny enough, when I considered using that as my leverage to be free of him, that’s when I learned that my state has a clause protecting a spouse from false claims of rape.
At least, that was how they dressed up that turd. To put it bluntly, it wasn’t rape if it was your husband. It didn’t matter if you were held down or cried or screamed. It didn’t matter if he ripped your clothes and used them to tie your hands together or that he would press his body against your back so hard you were sure this would be the time you suffocated and died while you gasped into the mattress.
But somehow, you lived.
Somehow, I lived.
Beckett lays the clothes he lent me on the bed in front of me. The motion and sight of him effectively pulls me out of my spiral. I hate when the damage sucks me in. I don’t want to relive that shit.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Beck drop his towel and pull on some pants. I swear he could look fine as fuck in a damn trash bag.
Nerves have me hesitating. Beckett is a fit guy, and I’m… a bit of a curvy girl. I promised myself not to say fat anymore, but I am visibly bigger than my man. I don’t know if my ass will actually fit in his pants. Even if they are stretchy gym shorts.
Still biting my lip, I miss him putting on his shirt and coming up behind me. When he kisses the top of my head, I jump a little.
“I’m going to go heat up some more soup because I worked up an appetite, and if your stomach grumbling in the shower was any indication, you could go for some more, too.” He smiles huge, and I duck my face a little. I had hoped he wouldn’t hear that. I am terrified of being that girlfriend that is just always hungry, but… dammit sex makes me hungry!
I give a little nod, and he kisses my cheek before snagging his towel off the floor and leaving the room.
Breathing a little sigh of relief at the privacy, I quickly pull off the towel and grab his shorts. Holding my breath, I work them up my legs and then my hips. I don’t notice that they’ve slid over my ass completely until they are all the way up. Granted, they sit a little lower on my hips than I usually wear my jeans, but they fit me just fine. In fact, they are a little roomy in the legs.
I take the shirt and pull it over my head. This time, I am not as lucky. It fits tight around my boobs and is a little loose below them, but the fabric stops short of my belly button. I look down and roll my eyes. It’s just high enough to show off the little scar there from my stupid teen choices of a ‘super sexy’ belly button piercing.
Yeah, real sexy when the dangly ‘fuck me’ rhinestone charm got stuck in my fishnet top and ripped the whole fucking thing out.
Even sexier when you have to call your mom from the emergency room and explain what happened and how it wasn’t the subtle ring she usually sees you sporting but a bling billboard offering your vagina on a platter to anyone interested. At least she never questioned why your best girl friend was the one holding your hand or kissing you after you had to get stitches.
How many relationships have I had with women that she never knew about? Or maybe she did, but she just chose to pretend? Can’t pretend my gay away mom. I like pussy and a nice pair of titties just as much as a fat, juicy cock.
Pulling and tugging and trying to stretch the fabric of the shirt does not do a damn thing. It just laughs at me and goes right back into position. Determined that I look ridiculous but tired of my grumbling stomach, I quickly dry my hair and toss it into a messy bun.
Like Beck, I make sure to snag my towel and toss it in the hamper before joining him on the couch.
On the coffee table, he has more bread, two bowls, two big glasses of water, and a small pastry box. I plop down beside him and finally realize that he watched me like a hawk as I walked over.
“Fucking hell, Lola. How are you so damn sexy?”
By some act of some sex god or another, I manage to give him a saucy wink before snagging the glass of water and taking a drink.
I’m not good at taking compliments, so filling my mouth with something fast seemed the smartest move.
He chuckles and presses play.
To his credit, he didn’t pick some stupid action movie.
Thank fuck it’s not a chick flick either, though.