Page 50 of Lucy and Her Wicked Three

Mateo winces then sits down beside me on the bed. "It's not like that. Lucy, if you ever need me, I'm there. You know that right? Have you ever needed me and not been able to get in touch with me?" He's honestly asking, worried he's failed me in the past.

I shake my head slowly, "No, Mateo. I know you're busy though. It's okay, I know that if I really needed you, you'd be there for me."

"In a heartbeat."

"In a heartbeat. But I talked more with the guys about this yesterday… we talked about how maybe we can be our best and that's enough. I know you're busy at work. And you've never outwardly judged me when I obsessed over videos and content and pictures, even though I could feel you internally rolling your eyes."

He makes a guilty face, but I keep going. "You've never made me feel like I was less than, even if there's a big part of my life you don't understand or can't relate to. I don't know if the otherguys will either, but my point is… I do get it. The point of the four of us… trying… this, or whatever this is. I will never hesitate to call you if I really need you. But I won't bug you at work about dinner when I can just as easily bug the guys. And we'll be here waiting for you when you get home. Right? Isn't that how this works?"

Mateo lets out a breath, then pushes his lips against mine. He claims me in that kiss, and for a moment, I forget I'm hungover, have a headache, and haven't brushed my teeth since I passed out in Noah's arms last night.

He kisses me slowly and with so much love, it brings tears to my eyes. "Mi corazón, there is literally nothing in this universe that sounds better than coming home to you. To you with them. I fucking love you so much. Thank you. Thank you for being you. You're so perfect." He kisses my cheek, cradling my face like I'm a delicate treasure, and I bask in his reverence, returning it with everything I have. I kiss him back, but when I try to climb him, he chuckles against my lips.

Pouting, he gently bites my bottom lip before pulling away. "Te Amo."

"I love you too."

He still has to get dressed so I enjoy the show, climbing out of bed to help fix his tie. It's all very domestic and sweet. He says he'll grab coffee at the office and when the door shuts, I'm too awake to go back to sleep.

Knowing a shower will help, I spend some time doing self care, slowly nursing my hungover body back to health. Applying a small amount of cream on my wrists, I go through a few yoga poses to stretch out and when I feel marginally more human, I get dressed.

It would be ridiculous to say I was disappointed the red marks have all but disappeared two days after Mateo tied me up and yet… I miss them. I liked knowing they were there. A battle scar.A memory seared on my flesh of what he put my body through, the heights he drove me to.

I've never done anything like that before, and Mateo was so in control. He didn't waver or hesitate, and I never felt unsafe. The opposite, I trusted him so much because we'd been together long enough that I could just let go and give him complete control.

Noah said they could use binds that won't leave marks but I'm not sure I want that. I don't bother analyzing how intensely I feel about being bruised or marked, the thrill it gives me. It's probably a normal reaction for someone like me who's never experimented in the bedroom.

The urge to turn on my phone and search for answers, find other stories from other people is strong.

But after I shower and stretch and stand in my closet, staring at the remnants of the life I've been determined to ignore, my anxiety, for the first time in weeks, feels lighter. Tentatively I run my fingers over the material of the dresses I've skipped in favor of ratty old t-shirts and sweats. Even last night, I couldn't make myself wear anything more than a pair of leggings and a t-shirt, and I refused to look in a mirror before I left the house, knowing if I did, I'd obsess over what I saw.

And what I didn't see.

But I force myself to, now. I've gotten used to seeing my freckles. Mateo likes them, too. He hasn't commented about me hiding them for so long, but he makes sure to tell me how much he likes seeing them.

But there's just so many of them. My fingers itch to reach out to the tinted sunscreen. Primer. Foundation. Contouring color. Bronzer and highlighter.

I run through the steps of putting on makeup in my head. This is so stupid. It shouldn't be that hard to walk away. Or to just do it. I like wearing makeup. I like how it looks. And it photographs well.

CGI, right in the palm of my hands. I can make my face look perfect. I can make myself look skinnier. My lips plumper, my eyes brighter.

Clutching the tinted sunscreen, I almost do it. But my hand belongs to someone else as I pick up each product and throw them in the trash.

I don't understand what's wrong with me.

I look back to the mirror. My eyes look dull. Maybe that's the hangover. Maybe it's the lack of eyeliner and falsies. My lashes are my own, dark brown and boring. My extensions have grown out, my hair is a mess.

My roots are an inch thick. I was due for a root touch-up before everything blew up. Now I'm way overdue. My light brown natural roots look dark against the white blonde locks. Neither color matched my eyebrows which were always darker than the rest of my hair.

I haven't plucked in weeks. My brows are thick and unruly.

I look completely different than I did when Mateo and I met. I look like a fucking sasquatch, now. How does this not bother him?

Does it, and he hasn't told me? Of course he wouldn't tell me. He's a good person. How could I let myself go this badly?

My heart races the longer I stare. A door slamming in the apartment makes me jump and I'm torn out of the self-debasing shakedown. Wiping the unshed tears from under my eyes, I pull my robe tighter and head down the hall.

Their voices bring a smile to my face and I shake off the feelings of inadequacy when I find two jubilant miscreants taking over my apartment.

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