Twenty-Two
“I may be on the side of angels, but don’t think for one second I’m one of them.”
~Sherlock Holmes
Elliot twitched under his clothes, unsure of what just happened. She’d asked him to take the lead, which he had, but then things got out of hand, and he was suddenly pinning her to the wall and fucking her mouth without restraint. He needed a minute.
He watched her take the stairs, noting the slight blotches on her backside from his grip. He waited until he heard her bedroom door close then marched up the steps, not thinking about where he was going.
He’d acted like some sort of animal. She’d cried. Because of him. And he was too lost in his own pleasure to notice.
And then she lied, as if tears were somehow acceptable in what should be a tender act. He should have never let Asher convince him sex should have a darker side. This was how people got hurt. If anything, his friend’s track record should have warned him away from any such advice.
While such behavior might be acceptable for the majority of men, it was not okay with him.
He needed the security of his control. The moment he let that slip, his perfectly orchestrated world would unravel.
Everything would fall apart—he and Nadia would fall apart.
He didn’t like leaving loose ends untied and he couldn’t bear this sense of mentally checking out to feed some greedy emotion. He was better than that.
Or was he just the same as everyone else? Panic gripped him as he pin wheeled for balance. What was happening to him? He was meticulous, exacting, and never sloppy with his actions. The man he became when around Nadia was someone he didn’t recognize, someone he wasn’t sure he could tolerate.
He passed his bedroom and several other doors until he barged into the room where he kept his collectibles, the room Nadia visited when he’d specifically told her it was private. This was what he did when he felt like he had no control. He hid.
There seemed to be razor thin balance between his past and future, one safe and secure, the other dark and reckless. He didn’t want to be in either at the moment.
He shut his eyes and the image of her looking up at him, lips swollen, face wet with tears and come painted on her skin. Jesus. What was wrong with him?
Seething, he stared at all the neatly displayed items and cursed. “Fuck!”
His hand flung out, clearing the closest shelf, as priceless items clattered to the floor.
Not caring what they were, he kicked a box across the room, knocking several others off the shelf.
He was supposed to be a fucking man yet had no fucking clue what was normal when it came to women. But it certainly wasn’t this.
He’d promised himself he’d respect her. And yet he’d lost control. What good was he if he couldn’t even keep his word to himself?
His hand flung out, tossing more objects across the room.
Resentment boiled inside of him as every crutch he’d leaned on now seemed debilitating.
Useless shit adding to his ignorance. Curtains to hide behind while the rest of his peers were miles ahead.
He hated feeling uninformed, but he didn’t have a fucking clue what he was doing.
“Stupid. Childish. Nonsense!”
He grabbed hold of a box, clutching it in both hands and stared at the collector’s item. It was the 1978 special edition, Luke Skywalker figurine, one of only twenty in existence.
He knew everything when it came to valuing action figures, child playthings, but he knew nothing about women. The filthy way he’d treated her tonight was wrong. Despite his lack of experience, he was certain any man that made a woman cry during intimacy was doing something evil.
His thumbs pressed into the plastic, denting the protective packaging and his heart thundered. A woozy sensation washed over him, but he didn’t ease his grip.
Knowing the consequences and not caring, he squeezed harder. Anxiety spiked as he imposed his own penance. Damaging something else he couldn’t replace seemed an irrational but fitting punishment.
He gasped as the packaging buckled, the aged glue breaking its seal from the paper backing.
“Shit,” he hissed, the haze of his rage dissipating fast enough to leave him disoriented and sick to his stomach.
What was wrong with him? More careless damage done from reckless behavior. Was his brain on fucking vacation today? How was he going to fix this? How was he going to make things right with Nadia? What if she left? He couldn’t breathe.
Glancing around, he looked for any sort of glue, but his eyes widened at the disaster he’d made. The second he registered the result of his destructive behavior his lungs went into an almost asthmatic spasm. Fuck. Everything was a disaster. Because of him.
Panting, he placed the collectible on the shelf and quickly gathered the others, his hands trembling as he inspected each package and returned them to their rightful places.
What was happening? This wasn’t him. He wasn’t reckless.
He took care of the things he loved, cherished them, and never gave in to passing urges that came with high stakes.
A cool sweat coated his skin. A few minutes of fervent anger and he’d cost himself twenty-five thousand dollars. Ten minutes of taking what he wanted from Nadia and he might have ruined the best thing to ever come into his life.
How could he face her? He couldn’t bear the sight of himself and didn’t want her to see him so shaken and disturbed by the uncharacteristic urges inside of him.
He couldn’t bare facing her only to see her walk away.
Her rejection would destroy him and experience promised she’d eventually leave once she got back on her feet—yet he kept helping her get there financially and otherwise.
Was that love or some sort of masochistic self-sabotage?
There was no playbook, and the man he became around her was unrecognizable to him.
Fist fights, spontaneity, sexual impulses…
Life never used to be this complicated. Despite all his hard-earned patience and perfected reserve, he didn’t trust himself not to disrespect her again.
And he couldn’t bear the thought of her tears. What if she was crying now?
His head was a mess. What if he already ruined it? Oh God, what if she hated him? She’d said it was fine, but… It wasn’t fine.
He went to his bedroom and locked the door. He couldn’t deal with this side of himself and she shouldn’t have to either. The feelings she stirred were too intense. It was too much, too fast, too reckless, and he needed to find a sense of stability again.
The memory of her looking up at him flashed in his mind again and his palm pressed into the door. He couldn’t stop picturing it. What kind of man slaked his own pleasure while holding a woman down?
Shame choked him as the urge to turn back time and temper his desires twisted in his gut. Nothing would undo what he’d done. Nothing could unshed her tears. He wanted to throw up.