Arranged(83)

In spite of my efforts, she kicked me out of her apartment exactly thirty seconds after I pulled my dick out of her.

I’d always been stubborn, so I still saw it as progress.





CHAPTER

THIRTY-EIGHT





NOURA


I worked on myself. I took a few days off a week, my attempt at having a life outside of modeling. I was sought after enough that I could afford to be more selective. I took some online college courses. I thought I would’ve been good at school if I wasn’t so busy trying to conquer the world.

I even went on a weekend vacation to Mexico with Jovie that had nothing to do with work.

I started eating solid meals, putting my health and nutrition before the next days’ photo shoot.

I gained ten pounds and that was hard, but I gradually allowed myself to accept that it was good weight. Most of it went to my boobs and hips, which photographed better than I was expecting. The designers who complained or put me down for it went solidly on my blacklist for the future.

And there were more slip-ups. Of course there were. I’m only human.

I gathered my clothes hastily. I needed to get out of there. It was week twenty-one post-divorce, and I’d impulsively let Banks take me home after drinks at The Plaza.

“This can’t happen again,” I said without looking at him.

“Why not, Duchess? Quit doing that. Drop your clothes and come back to bed. We’ll talk about it in the morning.”

I shot him a look. “No. We’re not doing this. This was a mistake. I can’t get over you like this.”

“Good,” he said, standing up. “I don’t want you to get over me.”

“Then what do you want exactly?”

“You know. I want you to give us another chance.”

I went completely still. I thought I was over the bitterness of his betrayal, but there it was, rising in me again. “Do you think you deserve another chance? If the roles were reversed, would you give me one?”

“Yes.”

“Easy to say when you’ll never be in my position.”

He grinned. “Never?”

I rolled my eyes. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I hope you did. I hope you’re never with anyone else but me for the rest of your life. And you’ll never be in that position again either. That’s a promise.”

I dressed hastily and got the hell out of dodge. I was in the elevator before I burst into tears.





On week twenty-nine post-divorce, I let him see me up to my apartment. A silent Jovie watched us wide-eyed from the living as we walked by. I made a face at her that meant I’d explain in the morning in best friend language.

She gave me two grinning thumbs up, the incorrigible girl.

Roughly two minutes later he was shirtless, on his knees eating me out in my bedroom when I felt something strange on his shoulder. Like gauze. I worried at it with my fingers for a minute before (reluctantly) pushing him away from his extremely distracting activities.

“What happened to your shoulder?” I asked him.

His eyes were a bit glazed over, his hands flying to undo his belt. He licked his lips. “Hmm?”

“Your shoulder. Is that a bandage?”

He glanced back like he had no notion what was on his own body. “Oh that.” His hands dropped from his belt and a he grinned. “Take it off. See for yourself.”

Reluctantly I rose, walking around him. Tentatively I touched it. It was definitely a bandage. “What did you do?” I asked him.

“Look,” he said.

With more than a little hesitation, I pulled the corner back. Raised angry pink flesh met my eyes. “You removed it,” I said, feeling a little lightheaded.

“I decided that I’m not a big fan of tattoos anymore, especially that one. It was about damn time.”

“You’ll have this scar forever.”

“It’s better than the alternative.”





On week thirty-eight post-divorce, I stayed the whole night at his place. We fucked like it was the end of the world. Again and again in every way imaginable. I was his putty and every thrust remade me into his pattern. We were a tapestry, and somewhere along the way, we’d been woven together.

I felt more tender and vulnerable than ever the next morning when he struck.

“You know I’m in love with you, right?” He told my back as I was dressing. He said it with utter rawness, like it hurt him but he wanted the pain.

I turned and faced him head on. He approached me, holding my face in both hands. “I love you,” he repeated.

Was his love real? I did not know. I needed to test it, taste it, touch it, see it.

Lay my face in his neck to breathe him in. Love? Still not sure.

Lay my ear against his chest, hear his heart beat. Love?

“I promised myself I’d never let myself fall again.” His voice was low and rough and raw. “But I didn’t know what that meant. In love there’s no free will. That’s how I know it’s real. I couldn’t stop it and I can’t deny it. This is it for me.”

I couldn’t choke a word out. My heart is an organ of excess. It is excessive and unrestrained.

It doesn’t give a little. It is an overachiever. When it gives, it gives absolutely everything. Somewhere along the way, I’d given it to him, and no matter how I resisted, I wasn’t going to get it back.