Page 139 of Beautifully Wounded

“Fuck, that was beautiful.”

Ringo’s words break through the orgasm haze I’m in, and suddenly, embarrassment comes crashing in.

My eyes meet his, mine wide, his still hungry.

I was loud.

I just masturbated in front of a grown man.

Shame.

So much shame comes crashing in.

Why are you so surprised, Abbey? You’re nothing but a whore.

Having him see me like this is too much, so I quickly sink down under the sheet and cover my head.

“Angel?”

I don’t answer him, my mother’s voice in the back of my mind reminding me why this all happened.

Movement through the room is what I focus on, willing my mum’s ugly voice away. I can hear Ringo as he goes into the bathroom and runs the tap before returning. Still, I stay hidden away, mortified.

I’m so different from him. Wendy’s words from the laundry room remind me of that.

“He can’t helpit if he likes it rough. He likes to choke his women until they stop breathing. He likes to fuck his women after they pass out. He likes being in full control of their body, able to do to it whatever he wants without them saying no.”

She was only trying to scare me, but what if Ringo does like it rough? What if he’s into kinks I don’t even know exist and here I am scared of touching myself?

He must think I’m so pathetic.

So frigid.

The bed dips, and I feel his form on top of the sheet as he lays down next to me.

“Angel, show me your face.”

“No.” I utter under the sheet.

“Please don’t make me demand it,” he says, and guilt gnaws at me.

I’m so pathetic that he has to demand that I do things.

“If you don’t mind, I’m just gonna stay here,” I say quietly, feeling the weight of my guilt and shame.

“Fine,” he sighs, “but I’m coming in.”

“What?”

A squeak flies from me as the sheet is ripped up, the fabric parachuting above us as Ringo rolls under, joining me with his head on the pillow as the sheet slowly floats back down over us, trapping us both in together.

His intense gaze locks with mine before roaming over my face like he’s trying to see inside my head.

What would he think if he could see the truth?

Would he think I’m foolish? Would he think I’m messed up? Sick perhaps?

“Why are you hiding?”

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