Lovegame(29)
But he still lingers—on my lips and now my tongue. Lemon and mint and rich, dark chocolate.
He tastes good, better than any man has a right to, and I rub my lips together in an effort to vanquish his taste. To obliterate it. But, like the bergamot and citrus smell of him, it clings to me. Refuses to be ignored.
Just like him.
The thought terrifies me—I’ve never met a man I couldn’t put in his place and then ignore—and the idea that he’s the first, that he’s somehow found his way inside of me despite my many many precautions…
I cut off the thought as soon as it enters my head, then stand up in a rush and head into the bathroom, where I turn the shower on. I shed my robe and step into the large, luxurious stall before the water has even warmed up, so determined to rinse Ian off of me that I barely even notice the cold.
I stand under the spray for long minutes, washing off the day. Washing off the makeup. Washing off the sex. Washing off the role I played nearly a year ago and the role I’ll probably play for the rest of my life.
I stand there trying to get clean so long that the water turns hot and then, eventually, cold again. So long that my skin prunes up. So long that I can almost forget what he smelled like, what he tasted like, what he felt like moving inside of me.
At least until I look down and see the bruises on my breasts, the love bites sucked into my skin by his demanding—domineering—mouth.
It’s the final straw in a day full of last straws and I shatter, the glue holding all the pieces of me together melting under the onslaught of the relentless spray of water, getting washed down the drain on the reckless trail of tears I don’t have the energy or the will to stop.
What am I going to do?
What am I going to do?
WHAT AM I GOING TO DO?
Though I’m alone, I shove my fist against my mouth in an effort to stifle the sobs I can’t hold back. And then I cry. I cry and cry and cry…for everything that I can’t change and everything that I won’t.
I give myself five minutes. Five minutes to sob. Five minutes to lose my shit completely. And then it’s done.
I rinse the tears from my face once and for all, then grab the shampoo and quickly lather up my hair. The water is freezing—that’s how long I’ve been in the shower—and now that I’m back in control, the ecological guilt is impossible to ignore. As is the chill. I rinse out the shampoo quickly, do the same routine with conditioner. Then—after a quick once-over with a loofah and some body wash—I turn the shower off.
I manage to avoid thinking for a good fifteen minutes as I dry off, put lotion on, get dressed. But when I’m finally done, when I’m standing in front of the bathroom mirror applying makeup and drying my hair, I can’t ignore the mess I’ve made any longer.
Twice now I’ve gotten so overwhelmed by Ian that I’ve walked out of what is supposed to be the cover interview for next month’s Vanity Fair. Twice now I’ve run away before he could ask any of the questions that he needs to make the piece anywhere close to decent—questions that will not only further the magazine’s agenda but the one set forth by my agent, as well.
If we were dealing with a normal timetable, maybe it wouldn’t be such a big deal—especially considering he’s at least partially responsible for today’s debacle. But we’re not—we’re already cutting this interview as close as we possibly can. Usually cover articles like this are done months in advance, but since Ian and I couldn’t get our schedules to sync up before this week, he’s got almost no time to turn the article in if it’s going to actually make it to print. The only reason Vanity Fair even gave us this leeway is they loved the idea of Ian—the man who finally uncovered the truth about the Belladonna murder after fifty years of lies—writing the story of the actress who plays her.
It’s a move guaranteed to sell a lot of magazines—and help set me up as a prime candidate going into awards season. The last thing I can afford to do is screw this up any more than I already have.
Which means, after everything, I’m going to have to see Ian again. I’m going to have to sit across from him and answer his questions, the whole time thinking about what happened between us. The whole time knowing that he’s thinking about the exact same thing.
Panic wells up inside of me, makes my head spin and my chest ache as it threatens to obliterate the calm I’ve worked so hard for over the last few minutes. As I blow out my unruly curls, taming my hair with the same ruthlessness I use to tame my emotions, I tell myself that it’s okay. That I can handle it. That I can do anything for a short while—even see Ian again.
It was just sex.
Just a biological function.
Just scratching an itch.
It’s no big deal, I tell myself as I straighten every last curl. Nothing I can’t handle. Nothing, even, to get worked up about. It was just sex and he’s just a man. And I know how to handle men—I’ve been doing it practically my whole life. What’s one more? What’s—
As the truth hits me, my brush clatters onto the counter and I sink onto the nearby vanity chair, my legs trembling so badly that I fear they won’t support me.
I can’t do it. I just can’t do it.
No matter how much I want to, no matter how important it is, there’s no way I can see him again. No way I can calmly answer his questions and pretend away what happened in that kitchen. Pretend away what he did to me—what I let him do to me. No, not let. Begged.