Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 89228 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89228 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
He kissed her neck and placed his palms on her inner thighs, widening her legs. “Continue.”
Cool air drifted over her labium, bringing with it the chill of memory. “Right.” She cleared her throat. “Well, I approached the table, and dozens of eyes flew in my direction, leering, crinkling with laughter. Lowering to my groin.” Which had suddenly felt obscenely pronounced in the tight satin of her gown.
Truth was, she'd grown insecure about the way her lips had stretched over the years, enough to stupidly mention it to Brent while he was fucking her the night before. A desperate attempt to seek his approval. His only response had been a series of grunts.
Tears rose up, then and now. She exhaled through it. “Brent was too busy flopping his bent arms like a chicken and squawking hysterically to notice my return. 'Flapping wings,' he said. God, it was...so loud. So fucking mean.” When he’d finally made eye contact with her, he leaned over to Tawny. I feel bad for her. You should see how the skin hangs. It's grotesque.
Sharp pain seared through her sinuses, stabbing needles behind her eyes. “Then he played the role of concerned husband, asking if anyone could recommend a...a g-good labial plastic surgeon to help me with my...problem.” She whispered the last word as if that would make it less real.
It had been a defining moment. The accumulation of all his hurtful words, the years of insecurities that came with posing before judges, and her lifelong battle with OCD had mounted inside her, pressurizing, as she stood amidst the laughter, moments from losing her polished demeanor.
Van tilted his head. “You looked up images on the Internet, right? You would’ve seen how completely normal your cunt is.”
She wobbled on the counter, nodding. “Those pictures made me feel worse. Outside of the few deformities posted on medical sites, the Internet is full of porn and beauty and perfection. Normal thirty-year-old women don’t post those kinds of images.” She tried to close her legs, and his grip on her thighs stopped her.
“Then you recognize the difference between a deformity and an eighteen-year-old porn twat.” His hands found her fingers and moved them to her inner thighs, holding them there. “What did you say to Brent after the surgery comment?”
Van’s nonjudgmental interest bolstered her, and she sat taller, less shakier. “It was clear he had described my vagina to a room packed with my colleagues, people who could make or break my career. In that single lonely heartbeat, I woke up. I realized he didn't love me. How could he? You don't treat someone you love with such vicious cruelty.”
Van shifted against her, and a swallow sounded in his throat. “Love and hate are closely related expressions of the same intensity. Both require passion, and neither follows logic. If he didn't love you, he would've treated you with shrugging detachment.”
His response resonated with what she knew of his own volatile behavior. She didn't know him, but she imagined he could love someone as fiercely as he hurt them. It would take a strong, willing person to survive his brand of passion.
With his hands caressing her fingers and thighs and his face nuzzling her shoulder, his affection momentarily eclipsed his earlier abuse. But he would hurt her again. She needed to pin that to the forefront of her mind and never confuse possessiveness and control with love. The way she had with Brent.
A glance at her pussy transported her back to the ballroom, and the remembered shock of what happened dragged her tongue over numb words. “The beer I held out dropped to the floor as I repeated out loud, 'Flapping wings.' It was the first time I'd heard that particular insult, and I wish I would've yelled it, owned it, with fucking venom. Brent didn't bother to turn around, simply glanced over his shoulder and told me to fetch him another beer.”
Van's fingers wove through hers, digging into her thighs, and his breaths grew sharper, faster. “Amber—”
“Let me finish.” She wanted to relive her anger, feel it thrash through her body and feed on its strength. “Tawny leaned back in her chair beside him and asked with drunken liveliness, 'Your lips are so stretched you can fly with them? Really, Amber? You gonna fly across the stage tomorrow and collect the crown with a sweeping vaginal thrust?'“
Van's eyes flashed to hers in the mirror. “I hope you smacked the mouth off that whore.”
She flinched. “She was drunk.” Tawny had a sick mother just like her and would always be her sister, the girl she raised and loved unconditionally. Even when Tawny stood by Brent during the divorce. And after. The heavy, achy weight of responsibility pressed down on her chest. “You promised not to hurt her.”
“I won't.” His gaze didn't waver from hers. “Unless you ask me to.”