Page 31 of Covetous

“Like this.” I jut my hips up and down in a rigid, rhythmless thrusting motion, throwing in a bang, bang, bang for good measure.

Isabella slumps over on the couch, laughing with tears in her eyes. “Oh shit. That’s great. You’re such a dork. I can’t.”

“I’m serious, Iz,” I say, even as I laugh. “I’m tired of faking orgasms. But if I don’t, I’ll hurt Ian’s feelings, and he’ll get pissed at me. And when he gets pissed, he gets so mad. Like scary mad. Then it’s a me problem and not a we problem. I’m the selfish one. I’m the ungrateful one. I’m the emotionally damaged one. I’m the one not in tune with my own body. I’m the spoiled one.” Hot tears run down my face. When did I start crying?

It’s been a week of extremes for Ian and me since our weekend at the Brathwaite, with moments of pure bliss followed by moments of deep frustration, to downright rage.

Isabella is at my side instantly, pulling me into her arms. “What can I do? Have Victor kick his ass? Because he will. He’ll kick anyone’s ass for me—probably for you too.”

I laugh, but it gets all choked up with my tears. “No. Don’t. Ian’s not the fighting type. He’d probably sue.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time someone tried to sue Victor for kicking their ass. But they never win. My dad makes everything go away.”

“For real? How? What happen—? You know what? It doesn’t matter. No one’s fighting my man.”

“Respectfully, Skylar, your man sounds like a total douche.”

“He’s not, though,” I whine, sitting up straight and wiping my tears. “He just has his moods. He’s under a lot of pressure at work.”

“My longest relationship lasted six months, and I’ve been blissfully single for over a year, so I’m probably not the best source for relationship advice. From my limited experience, if a man who says he loves you makes you feel unlovable and inadequate, blames you for everything, and makes you feel unsafe, even if it happens just once, that’s one time too many.”

I nod, hearing and agreeing with what she’s saying, but she doesn’t understand. “I can’t give up on him like his ex did. They were supposed to get married, and she cheated on him. It broke his heart. And his mom—” I shake my head. “It’ll break him, Iz.”

Ian’s biological mother surrendered him to the state when he was seven years old. The Davenports, wanting a son after having four girls, welcomed Ian into their home through fostering after his first four placements failed. They adopted him soon after, surrounding him with abundant love and creating a safe and secure environment every child deserves. But the wounds left behind by his mother never fully healed, leaving angry, jagged scars in their wake.

“You know what you need?” Isabella asks, smiling at me through her own watery eyes.

“What?”

“More booze. Something stronger. Oh, and more cookies! I’ll be right back.” She climbs off the bed and hurries out of the room, almost skidding in her socks as she reaches the stairs.

“Careful,” I say, giggling.

“You didn’t see that,” she calls out, stomping down the stairs.

“But I did, though.” I lie back on Victor’s bed, closing my eyes against the grit behind my lids. I hate my contacts. I blink my eyes open and stare aimlessly at the ceiling as I try to imagine the next five years of my life.

Chapter Eleven

I wake up face down under the covers in a big, warm bed. The sunrise from the windows, with its colors dancing across the horizon, marks the start of a new day. Despite the signs of a beautiful morning, my head is pounding, stealing the peaceful moment. I’m not hungover, not completely, but the dull ache is enough for me to massage my temples as I survey my surroundings. Isabella’s sleeping on the couch, covered with a blanket, with her arm hanging out.

This is not Isabella’s room. We’re still in Victor’s room. And I’m in his bed. Between his sheets. Fuck. I don’t even know when or how that happened. I made myself comfortable on his bed last night, but not in his bed.

Where is Victor? Did he come home last night and find me in his bed? Shit. Shit. Shit. Could I be any more mortified? Even though I’m still wearing yesterday’s clothes, the optics are not in my favor.

Easing out of bed, I stand on unsteady legs. I yawn, rubbing my eyes and remembering that I still have my contacts in. Muttering curses, I clumsily make my way to Victor’s bathroom. It takes me nearly five minutes to remove my disposable contacts. The right one comes out quickly enough, but the left one won’t stick to my fingertip for dear life. By the time I manage to remove it, my eye is red and irritated.

Leaving Isabella to sleep, I pad down the stairs, scanning the lower level. I breathe a sigh of relief finding it empty. No one besides Isabella has to know that I slept in Victor’s bed last night. I’m taking that one to my grave.

As soon as I step inside Isabella’s room, I reach into my bag and retrieve my eyeglasses, eager to put them on. Once I can see clearly, I rummage through the rest of my things. I brought a towel from home, not knowing how stocked Victor’s place was. That was before I knew his mother outfitted his apartment with all the linens and kitchenware he could ever need. With my bag in tow, I shut myself into the guest bathroom for an hour.

I could still use some Tylenol for my headache. I’m tempted to find some when I finally leave the bathroom, but I’ve been intrusive enough, making myself way too comfortable already. Esme would kill me if she knew I slept in Victor’s bed last night. Heck, I’d do the same to her if it were Ian. But she would never do that to you. And now I feel even shittier.

She texted me last night after I’d gone to sleep, asking all sorts of questions about Victor’s whereabouts and if he came home last night as if I had the inside information. There was also a missed text from Liv asking me if I knew the piping hot tea. I haven’t responded to either of them yet. On my way to Isabella’s room, I do just that.

Me

As far as I know, Victor went out with his boys last night. I just woke up, so I’m not sure if he’s home yet. I’ll let you know.

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