Between the bedsheets, I stare at his tanned back. I want to know what he thinks of this. Is he even awake? A sigh leaves my lips and I lean back, rolling and staring at the ceiling with narrowed eyes. As if it's all the ceiling's fault.
I can feel his eyes on me, then hear that calm, gentle voice calling me name tenderly. "Madara…" Another sigh, this time a sharper sigh, leaves me and I turn my head to meet those dark, calm eyes. His eyes. Disgust and anguish fills my mind and I turn away, staring back up at the ceiling.
Remnants of memories of the previous night flash through my mind. How far have I fallen, to let myself be touched in such ways as I have. He says my name and I sit up suddenly, my naked and bruised body protesting. I have to get out of here. I hate it. I hate him.
He'll probably go straight back to her. Offer her flowers and words of "true love" with a sweet smile. He actually loves her, after all. He'll pretend that this night of passion, no not passion, just animalistic lust, never happened. And as far as he's concerned, it never did. I hate him.
So why do I let it happen?
