The Absolutely True Story of Us (8 page)

There's a slight pause.

M: I'm not trying to start anything. You must be wearing something that sparked this conversation, right?

Corset. Skirt. Thigh-highs.

M: I bet you look delectable.

No matter how sarcastic and obnoxious, he never fails to make me smile.

Obviously, I do. But I can't dress like this all the time.

M: But you could do it more often. For him. For yourself. Didn't I see you post that "how to get a bikini body: step one, get a bikini, step two, put it on your body" thing? Don't talk the talk if you're not going to walk the walk.

It's not that easy.

M: Nothing is ever easy. You wanted a solution, there it is. That's the wonderful thing about relationships: your actual personality might be a crooked Jenga pile of neuroses and dysfunction, but you don't get to act that way anymore. You don't get to keep living your own life. If you try to self-destruct, it'll take both of you down. So put on a fucking bikini and give him a thrill. When he wants to leave the lights on during sex, don't hide. It's a fucking compliment. Act like it.

You should do a blog post about that.

M: I plan on it. Another thing: if you do get that bikini, I want a picture.

Never in a million years, Sir.

M: The next time you want my advice, I'm going to remember that.

"Important correspondence?"

I almost jump out of my skin. Dean's standing behind me. I just pray he didn't notice anything on my screen, because I really do not need that in my life right now. Trying to act casual, I lock my screen and tuck my phone away. "Just checking the time," I tell him, as he walks around and takes the chair across from me. "Did you get lost in there?"

"Got caught up in a conversation," he says, glancing at the corner of the room he must've just emerged from. "I didn't expect to be
this
popular."

"It's the pants," I tell him. "Has to be the pants. I mean, it's obviously not your personality."

"That lady over there thought I was
very
charming, I'll have you know," he informs me, jerking his head in the direction of a middle-aged woman in a black dress and studded collar, talking animatedly to someone who looks like she wants badly to escape the conversation.

"I'm sure she did. She looks like she's about five martinis deep. She would find a Cenobite charming."

Dean chuckles. "See, now, I get that reference. I bet you never thought I'd be into horror movies, did you?"

"I admit I didn't." It was one of those points of conflict in our relationship - one that you never talk about, because there's no reason to, but I ended up missing almost everything I wanted to see in theaters and began to resent him for it, without ever mentioning why.
 

"This is fun, though," Dean says. "Is there anything else coming up soon?"

"Nothing that calls for leather pants," I tell him with a sympathetic smile.

He shakes his head. "Damn it."

I'm still a little tipsy when the car service drops us off at my apartment. Thankfully, Dean is there to help me up the stairs in my damn heels.

"You look beautiful tonight," he says, glancing at me. A smile plays at his lips. "Maybe I should stay in a hotel."

"What does that mean?" I'm fumbling with my keys, and it's not because of the champagne in my system.
 

"I don't know if I can be trusted." His hand rests on the small of my back. "It was fun, pretending you belonged to me."

"Who says
I'm
the submissive?" I grin at him as I push the door open. For some reason, I'm not shrugging off his hand, but when I start walking forward, he lets me go.

"Everything about you says you're the submissive," he tells me. "That's a compliment, by the way."

"Thank you?" I toss my coat on the sofa and pull off my shoes. "Ugh. Finally."

"Shame," he says, eyes glittering as he looks at me. "But you shouldn't keep torturing yourself on my account."

"Please don't say 'that's my job.'" I meet his eyes, carefully, trying to figure out if he's being even slightly serious.

"I wasn't going to," he says, taking a step closer. "Unless of course..."

I laugh nervously. "What's gotten into you?"

And that's it. The mood changes. With a sudden shrug, Dean flops down on the sofa. "Nothing. Just messing around. Tonight was fun; I thought I'd try and extend it a little bit."

"Yeah," I admit, sitting down an appropriate distance from him. "I guess it's been a while since we had fun together, huh?"

"A very long time." His hands are resting in his lap and I can't stop staring at his fingers, the way they interlock. I miss the feeling of them brushing against my skin, even just casually.

I don't really want to talk about this, but I have a feeling it's going to happen anyway.

"You know," he says, "I had tickets for
Les Mis
the week after we broke up. I was going to surprise you."

I swallow, hard. "No, you never mentioned that."

A long silence stretches between us. So many things have changed since then - or maybe they haven't. I can still remember the acute pain of watching Dean slowly withdraw from me, his face going blank whenever he talked about it. About
her
. There were brief moments where he seemed almost remorseful, but mostly I didn't recognize the man I saw that day. The one who was always so kind and accommodating - the one who once said he'd do anything to make me happy.

Anything.
 

Somehow, in the fanciful delusion of first love, I let myself believe it. I should have known it wasn't true. It's never true. And in his case, it was
"anything except giving up my piece on the side."

Maybe he cheated and maybe he didn't. These days, I don't know anymore. I could see someone looking at my relationship with Jack and misinterpreting it the same way. But I'd never hide it from someone. I'd never lie. I'd never let someone I loved slip away, just because I couldn't find a way to say that I was sorry and
mean it
.

It's hard to describe, if you've never seen it. I've now lived through it twice, and I can assure you there is nothing worse than looking into your lover's eyes and seeing nothing there. Knowing they have slammed a door, or maybe it was never open in the first place. Maybe that reflection of you, the one you used to see there - maybe it was just a trick of the light.
 

Almost as if he can read my mind, Dean starts to speak again.

"You changed, that day," he says, slowly. "I never would've guessed you were capable of hating me."

I stare at him, my throat tightening. "I didn't hate you."
 

It's not until now, this exact moment, that I realize how true it is. In the moment I first understood his betrayal, I split in two. A part of me had to hate him, just to survive. It was the mask I showed him that day when he came home, but I didn't realize it at the time. For months afterwards, I constantly wavered between the two identities, one cold and detached, the other wounded. Reeling. And still very much in love.

I thought the wounded half had died, but now I realize she is still very much alive. Mewling for attention, begging for the man she loves, incapable of understanding that he's the one who hurt her.

I don't have the energy to hate him anymore. If anything, I hate
her
.

She's the one who leans forward and touches his arm, who closes the distance between us. She's the one who only sees a man that she still wants, still needs, and kisses him.

There is a moment where he registers surprise, and I think he might actually pull away. But he doesn't.

***

Dean

She kisses me.

I don't know what it was, but something I did, something I said, melted the ice around her heart. She's willing to forget for a minute that she wishes me dead, and just
feel
.

I should put a stop to it. This is a really, really bad idea. Things are messy and complicated enough as it is. But she makes this little sound, a muffled whimper, and it brings something roaring to life inside of me.
 

Fuck yeah, I can give her what she wants. I may not be a book boyfriend, but I know what makes her hot. My hand slides around the back of her neck, holding her head in place, firmly. Taking control of the kiss. My mouth devouring hers. She goes rigid for a second, and then suddenly becomes pliant.

Oh, yes. There's my girl.

My mind is racing and bouncing all over the place, thinking back to all the times we were in bed together, and it seemed like she'd freeze up. The memories are fragmented, but they come back. Every time, I'm almost positive, it's because I was asking her what she liked, what she wanted. Softly and kindly and sweetly, the way you're supposed to do with someone you care about. I remember the intense feeling of frustration when she'd just blush and shake her head, her favorite answer always a murmured: "I dunno."

Now, I get it. She's not embarrassed about sex, she's just a submissive, through and through. She didn't know how to ask to be dominated. I mean, it's a hell of a contradiction. I can't really blame her, although a little part of me wonders how different things could have been between us.

My heart beats wildly in my chest, and needless to say, my dick could probably cut glass. I'm thinking of all the possibilities. Everything she probably wanted me to do, all the desires hidden behind that bashful
I dunno
.
 

I can be that man. I know my way around her body, where to kiss and touch, although I'll be the first to admit I stopped putting the knowledge to good use at some point. I got complacent, I guess. We both withdrew into ourselves. I'm still selfish, but now I realize that doesn't have to be a bad thing. I very
selfishly
want to see her fall to pieces. I know I can do it. I want to prove I'm not still the guy who fell into the habit of seven minutes of missionary every two weeks, only to roll over and fall asleep. I don't think I could be that guy again.
 

Because, you know, there's sex, and then there's
sex
. Most men don't struggle to get theirs, so the journey of erotic exploration is mostly left to the frustrated and unsatisfied women who'd like to
really enjoy themselves, just this once
. It's a stereotype, I guess, but it's true. Men are wired to ejaculate. The species can't continue if we don't. As long as that happens, nothing else really matters to our lizard brains. And so millions of years of evolution have left us with a generation of two-pump chumps who may or may not even
enjoy
the sex they're having, but hey, at least they're fulfilling their biological imperative.

We have no motivation to push back against it, unless, of course, we suddenly discover what it means to
really
be turned on.

This isn't about scratching an itch, relieving pressure so I can go to sleep. There's a roaring sensation in my head that's begging me to bend her over the sofa and leave bite marks in the soft flesh of her ass. To spank her until the wetness of her arousal trickles down her leg. To lick it up, taste it, to lose myself in her pleasure. None of those things make any kind of sense biologically. And yet I have this primal need to make her scream.

I pull away from her, finally, trying to catch my breath. I know I won't be able to. Not until I've satisfied the needs writhing and twisting inside me.
 

"Get up," I tell her roughly.
 

This is the moment when she might stop, might back away. Might run. But somehow I know she won't.

She stands, unsteadily, swallowing hard. Her eyes are closed.
 

"Turn around," I whisper.
 

She does. She's now standing in front of me, body quivering, waiting.

"Take off your skirt."

She unfastens it, and it falls easily to the side. My breath catches in my throat at the sight of the black lace panties, stark on her skin, showing much more than they conceal. I run my finger along the intricate design, watching goose bumps rise along her skin as she feels the warmth of my touch through the flimsy fabric.

Finally, my finger hooks on the waistband, pulls it slightly, and lets it snap back. She gasps.

"Who are these for?" I murmur.

I hear her swallow again, and then she answers. "None of your business."

I stand up, and she spins around to stare at me with wide, dark eyes.

"Bend over the sofa," I tell her.

Her pulse pounds visibly in her throat. "Why?"

I let a humorless smile twist my mouth. "You know why."

A silent battle is waged between us. She has the option to walk away, probably
should
walk away, and she knows it. Oh, but she wants my punishment. She wants me. She hates it, but she's about to forget everything but the feel of my hand.

"You don't have the right," she whispers. "Why should I?"

"Because you want it so bad you don't care
who
gives it to you," I tell her. "Bad girls can't be choosers."

She laughs, low and throaty. "You think it would be hard to find a guy on Craigslist to spank me, if that's what I really wanted?"

"So get the fuck out, then," I tell her, calmly. The tone is probably somewhat belied by my ridiculous hard-on, but there's nothing to be done about that.
 

She just glares at me.

"That's what I thought." I smirk. "Bend over and take your punishment."

And she does. I don't know how many guys she's done this with since we were together, but she sure knows how to assume the position like a champ.

"Let's try again." I tug lightly on the panties. "Who are these for?"

"None of your business," she repeats.

I draw my hand back, and I spank her.
 

The involuntary noise that escapes from her throat just makes me throb harder. It's part pain, part shock, and all arousal. Without even realizing it, she arches her back as much as the corset allows, really displaying her ass to me like the gift that it is. I reach up and fumble with the ribbons, loosening it just enough to really let her express herself.