I do not own Twilight.
I really am trying to post at least a chapter a day and, with their short length, it hasn't been a problem…yet.
This chapter is rated a mild M.
My life feels as though it is passing in a blur, or like I am under water, staring up into the sky. I'm here, but not really, and I think Mike is beginning to catch on and that scares me.
"Do you want some of my shrimp?" Mike asks, leaning across the small table he has reserved at a nearby restaurant. Half of a sauce-coated shrimp is pierced on the end of his fork. I sit back a bit, an unnecessary feeling of annoyance rising through me.
"I'm allergic to shellfish, Mike," I say for what must be the hundredth time since we started dating.
Mike looks taken aback, as he always does.
"I didn't know that."
I grimace because he does know this, he just tends to forget these little details, and go back to moving around the ravioli on my plate.
"Not hungry?" he asks after a few quiet moments and I glance up at him. He's watching me with his baby blue eyes, his blond hair slicked back against his head. The candle between us flares across his face and I have a random thought about the lighting in jail.
Is it this poor for him? Can he even read in the evening as I know he likes too?
I shut the thoughts out before they can overwhelm and put down my fork, forcing a smile.
"Not really," I say, but grab for a bread roll. Bread always makes me feel better.
Mike chews for a little while before grabbing for his beer.
"Listen," he starts, and I immediately tense up. "I know we had plans for a movie, but Josh got a hold of that basketball court off of Rayland. You know, the one with the new hoops?" His eyes are wide and excited and I can't help the slumping of my shoulders. "Would that be cool?"
I don't know if I'm more disappointed in the fact that he is changing our plans or the fact that I am a little more than okay with it.
"Yeah," I say, forcing another smile. This one is a bit less difficult to force.
Mike grins and takes a large sip of beer. "Wanna watch us? The guys won't mind."
I shake my head and wave my hand towards him. "No, have fun. I have some homework to catch up on anyways."
And, despite the fact that it's a Friday night and he had promised me this dinner and a movie two weeks ago, his grin widens and he says, "Thanks, babe. I owe you," before flagging down the waiter. "The check, please," he says, and his voice has increased in excitement.
An hour later, instead of starting the homework I had told him I had, I draw a hot bath and try not to fall asleep.
A few hours after that, Mike crawls into bed behind me, the increasing scent of beer and something else rolling off of him.
Marijuana, maybe. Mixed with cigarettes.
His lips are moving sloppily over the corner of my jaw, his hands rough as they grab at my hips, my stomach, my breasts. Normally, this would excite me. The idea of being wanted so badly that he would grope at me, but now the touches make me sick to my stomach.
This is not want. This is the desperation of a man who is drunk and high. This is the unapologetic apology of a man who left me at a restaurant to shoot hoops with his friends.
This is Mike, and this is our relationship: food and sex.
And when he rolls me over onto my back and slides in between my legs, pressing his erection against me and then in me, his lips on mine, moving down my neck, there is only one thought in my mind and it's the same thought that is always in my mind when I am intimate with someone.
When Mike's legs move against mine, all I can feel is Edward. When his kisses turn sloppy and desperate, all I can taste is Edward. When he groans low in my ear, my name releasing in a slur from his mouth, all I can hear is Edward.
And when he comes, hard and fast inside of me, I shut my eyes tight, and all I can see is Edward.
