Chapter 49

He got her home then promptly vanished for three days. Hope assumed it was work-related; which she understood because she was in a frantic game of catch-up at school after the two week hiatus.

Finally one late night she heard the lock catch and turn, and went out into the main hall; she watched him make his way directly to the main bedroom, loosening his tie; he never looked at her.

Hope followed him in, curious, in a talkative mood. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, nothing," he said dismissively, getting out of his suit and collapsing onto the bed. He finally looked at her, and his eyes were flat.

"Long day?" She tried again.

"Yeah, yeah. You know, I'm just gonna go to bed alright? I'm not really in the mood to talk, so...", disinterest clear in his voice.

She tried to mask her hurt. "Okay", and climbed onto the bed, crawling from the foot towards the head end, lying next to him, putting her hand on his chest.

He flinched. "Don't".

Hope recoiled as if he'd thrown hot water on her. "Why?"

"Just don't, okay. Don't do it." He was curt, abrupt now.

She was desperate for some sort of contact and it made her brave. After a pause, she climbed back off of the bed, went and stood in front of it, and as he sat there, she yanked her top up over her head, and then the pants - undoing the button, zipping them down, taking them off. Everything else too, and stood there, wide-eyed and hopeful.

He looked at her for a second, his expression impassive. "I've seen you naked before."

Her face fell slightly, but still she was determined, quickly plastering a smile on her face, crawling back onto the bed and up to him as she had before, and leaning in close, making unsuccessful attempts at a kiss - he kept moving around, dodging.

Her face crumbled, and Christian looked at her and felt it all start boiling to the surface. "You want to fuck me now. Where were you when I wanted you, when I needed you?"

She looked at him.

"I thought you were fucking dead. Do you know that?"

She was silent.

"You have nothing to say. Right." He got up from the bed and took off from the room. Hope got up and went after him, still naked.

"I'm sorry", she mumbled, her voice thick with shame.

"Sure you are. Sure. How sorry were you when you were fucking him?"

"We didn't sleep together."

He looked at her in disbelief, his voice deadpan. "You really expect me to believe that."

"It's the truth."

He put down his water glass and then gave her a sideways look. "You know, I'm starting to think you don't have the first fucking idea what that means."

He pushed past her, out of the kitchen, headed back toward the main bedroom. At this point she was just trailing after him helplessly, at a loss. He climbed back into the bed and she jumped in too, which he didn't seem all that pleased about.

Now it was her turn to stare. She lie there looking at his profile for a long time; he didn't bother turning to look at her. "Stop fucking looking at me" he snapped quietly.

She turned around slowly so that she was facing the wall, and was very still.

He fished his book out of the nightstand and opened it, but couldn't concentrate in his highly upset state anyway. He turned and looked at her intently, her back, his eyes traveling all the way down to her feet and back up again.

He called her name sharply. She hesitated for a second, then turned back to face him.

"You want me? You got me." he said.

Christian put his hand on her hip and pushed, until she turned and lay flat on her back, then grabbed both her wrists with one of his hands, yanking her arms far over her head, pinning them down so she couldn't touch him. She looked up at him in wide-eyed confusion, but curious, expectant.

He extended his other arm over towards the nightstand, fumbling for something. She soon realized what. "I don't know where you've been," he snapped.

Her face seemed to fall apart in that moment.

Later, satisfied, he collapsed back onto the bed, then turned on his side away from her, saying nothing. She hadn't finished; he knew it, and he didn't care. He lie there, staring straight ahead, and a few seconds later he felt the gentle repetitive motion of the mattress, and knew what she was doing. He didn't care about that either. If those pictures were anything to go on, she doesn't even know how to do it right anyway, and won't get even a fraction of what I could give her.

Then for a split-second he was overwhelmed with feelings of love for her; but as soon as they'd appeared, he'd squashed them again and closed his eyes, falling asleep to the repetitive motions of the mattress behind him and her frustrated, irregular breathing.

The next morning, he watched her climb out of the shower after him, gingerly, limping more than a little bit; he'd been too rough and had probably hurt her, and felt a uneasy, seemingly contradictory mix of shame and indifference.

I don't make love; I fuck - hard.