Sometimes, the flames lick and torture. The embers burn my skin down to my bones.
–
His face is buried in my neck as he thrusts. Slow. Torturously slow. His teeth leave little nibbles on my neck. The gesture is so primal that I almost come undone. I bring my hands over his chest and up to his neck, so I can grab his hair and tug, letting him know how much I need this. I turn to face him and kiss his cheek. It's such a simple gesture, that he smiles. He smiles and brings his lips to mine, not once breaking the rhythm our bodies have set. We break when we can't breathe anymore, and, panting with need, I do to him what he was doing to me. I suck the bead of sweat off his neck, and nip at his skin.
It's like an instinct. He moves his head away as if I've burned him. He doesn't stop his movement, but I can see that I bothered him to the point of distraction. He gives me a small, apologetic smile and moves to kiss me again. I try not to let it get to me – maybe I am overthinking things. But it's confirmed when I try to kiss his neck again and he moves his hands from either side of my shoulders, where they were supporting his body weight, and strokes my cheeks with his thumbs.
His weight on top of me is stifling; as are his words. "Don't mark me," he whispers.
"Why?"
"You know why," he says, and as if to highlight his point, I see his wedding ring gleam from the light of the night lamp.
I give a small, bitter smile. "So you can mark me as yours, but I can't mark you mine. Because you aren't."
My traitorous, traitorous heart wants it all sometimes. His love is like a drug. The more he gives, the more I crave, and at the end of it is a temporary satisfaction. We usually go around in circles, and end up where we started – sated but wanting, at the same time. Addicted to what we have.
Earlier today, he was talking about Sophie – his little princess – taking part in some fancy dress competition at her pre–school, and for once Tanya is being so attentive to her, and how happy it makes him. Did he not even think how insecure that would make me? That I would never have his child, never bring him – or any man, or myself – that happiness? Because I'm almost thirty two and this biological clock shit sucks.
He sighs, my irritation making him annoyed. "Can we not talk about this now? Please?" His eyes close again and his forehead rests against mine.
Fine, then. He can have it his way. I grab him and urge him to go faster, harder, deeper, but I don't feel any of it. I am thinking far too much about that wedding ring that I'll never wear.
"Bella?" he says breathlessly, trying to bring me back to the moment. I pull on his hair, and there is nothing gentle about it. I scrape my nails across his back, digging them into his skin, and there is nothing loving about it. If I'm hurting, so must he. He moves faster when he catches on. He senses my sadness, my anger, and suddenly his expression hardens. I have ruined the moment and I know it. He doesn't like to be reminded that what we do is wrong – at least in the eyes of the society. And now I feel his anger in his punishing rhythm. I feel his frustration in how the fingers of his right hand dig against my waist.
He is not angry at me. I am not angry at him. We just are.
He takes and takes and I willingly give. He hurts and I hurt and we hurt ourselves emotionally, instead of hurting each other physically.
"Let go, Bella."
"I can't."
"Bella, please. Just don't."
I don't reply. Don't what? Don't ruin it further? Don't think? Don't feel? Don't go numb? Am I numb?
"Stop thinking so much," he pleads, but I will have none of it.
I touch him everywhere, frantically, because he won't stop trying and will eventually exhaust himself. Already his breathing is staccato. But I can't let go. Not tonight. I hurt too much but won't let him suffer for it. I drag my nails across his back again, this time a lot gentler, like I know he goes wild to. I take his bottom lip between mine and kiss him soundly. I meet him thrust for thrust till I break his resolve.
"You let go, Edward," I whisper in his ear, and he does. He gives in with a strangled groan, breathless and angry that I made him come.
"Why did you do that?" he growls and punches the pillow on the right side of my face.
I don't have the strength for this, nor the inclination of arguing it out with him, so I just move myself from under him and he lets me. Then I turn myself away from him and leave him to his harsh breathing. I don't think I can look at him without breaking down and my eyes sting anyway. Minutes pass in this manner – my silence and his breaths – and I breathe deeply, soundlessly, pretending to be asleep. I know he is awake. He hardly sleeps here. I hear him move before I feel the mattress shift. His arm snares around my waist and he pulls me to him, my back taking warmth from his chest.
"I'm so sorry, baby. You know I am," he whispers. He sounds devastated. So I cry. I don't turn around. I try to hide my tears from him, but instinct wins out and I end up sniffling. He holds me tighter but leans up on his elbow so he can kiss my face.
"Please don't cry, baby. Please, please, please…"
And thus we spend our assigned four hours of Tuesday evening – spooning in my bed, upset and frustrated, and him holding me as I cry.
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