Page 70 of Unexpected

She moaned out a broken “yes,” followed by my name, and then I was done. The orgasm I had kept on a short leash the entire time reared back and crashed over me. Two more hard strokes were all it took as my balls drew up, and I groaned my release.

It took me a minute to recover and for the post-orgasm fog to lift. My hand and stomach were coated in my release, and I seriously needed another shower.

Hazel was still perched on the edge of the dresser, heaving deep breaths and watching me through hooded eyes. A lazy smile tugged at the corners of her mouth as she enjoyed her own post-Ojoy.

“That was fun,” she said before dropping her legs together and scooting carefully onto the floor. Her legs buckled slightly, but she quickly recovered, pulling her phone to her ear. I did the same, taking the phone off speaker and settling back into my chair while using my towel to wipe off my hand and stomach.

“Agreed.” I chuckled.

“I guess I should go pack. You did give me some good ideas about a scene I should add to my book, though. I think I might have to put my thoughts down first, otherwise, I won’t get any packing done.” She wiggled her eyebrows up and down before scooping her clothes from the floor.

“If you need more inspiration, just remember, I’m right next door.”

“How could I forget?”

I laughed. “I’ll be over soon to help you pack.”

“Okay. Good night, Luke.”

I loved the way my name rolled off her tongue. “Good night, Hazel.”

I didn’t think I was ever going to wipe the smile off my face. The woman was perfect, just like I had told her, and I was still fucking flying preparing for another shower as my phone rang with a call from an unknown number.

I declined the call. Fuckers couldn’t take a hint.

TWENTY-SEVEN

Hazel

I had a pre-moving checklist.It could also have been called a postbreakup checklist since many of the items related to my recent split, but the list was my lifeline in the days leading up to moving.

I had already cleaned out most of the house and donated several bags and boxes full of items to the local women’s shelter, both of which were items on my list. I rearranged the old furniture in the garage, moving all the pieces I wanted to take to one side of the garage and shoving Michael’s shit to the other.

Most of the furniture inside the house would stay whether I wanted it to or not; I didn’t have room for most of it in my small six-hundred-square-foot, one-bedroom apartment.

Each time I completed a task, I was relieved to check it off my never-ending list. With the way my life had fallen into chaos, it was a simple lifeline that kept me moving forward.

The one item on my list that I dreaded more than anything was STD testing.

After Michael copped to cheating on me, I knew I had to get tested. We hadn’t used condoms for most of our relationship; once we were official, it didn’t seem necessary. I’d been on some form of birth control since college, and since we were only sleeping with each other—or so I thought—it was optional.

I went to my normal OB-GYN for the testing and was lucky enough that it fell around the time that I was due for my annual exam, so it didn’t seem out of the ordinary to test for STDs. My results were emailed to me a few days later: all clear. And I cried.

The piece of shit had beaten me, cheated and completely controlled my life for years, but at least he hadn’t given me a disease.

Word had also begun to spread around the tight-knit community my parents and Michael’s parents were still actively part of in Nashville. Rumors began that I had been unfaithful or had a secret child with another man. I was sure all of the nasty rumors were courtesy of my ex-future mother-in-law, who had also taken to social media to covertly begin theHazel Hate Campaign.

None of her posts or comments were about me explicitly—she still had a reputation to maintain, of course—but with the way those old women gossiped, it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out who she was alluding to.

My sister, and always my defender, took every opportunity to tear down the rumors and tell anyone who would listen in no uncertain terms that our split was Michael’s fault. After I told her that I didn’t want the entire world knowing about our situation, she kept the reasons quiet and simply just called Michael a manipulative, lying, cheating piece of shit.

Although it wasn’t the whole truth, it was still completely accurate.

My mom continued to provide her support via daily phone calls and text reminders that my room looked the same as it did when I left for college too many years prior. She even went as far as to send me job listings for technical writing positions in and around Nashville.

Each time I told her that I appreciated the thought, but I wasn’t going back.

The most surprising was the call I received from my dad a few days after I told my mom and sister the few details I could share about the years of abuse.

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