My tongue is stuck to the roof of my mouth.
That’s the first thing I notice.
Then, slowly, the thick, aching throb of my head starts to wake me up. Pulsing, beating, heavy stabs of pain that make me feel like someone hit me with a giant boulder, then ran me over with a tractor tire for good measure.
Groaning, I squeeze my eyes shut tighter, not wanting to open them. If I open them, then the vertigo might have a chance to set in before I even stand up, making my world spin and my vision blur until I puke.
Oh, man.
The back corners of my mouth turn sour, like I sucked on a warhead without the sweet aftertaste, my stomach tossing and turning violently even though I’m making sure to stay as still as possible in my bed.
The sheets are tangled around my legs, and I try to slowly jerk them free, my muscles tensing and releasing as I gingerly move my body and try to assess just how incredibly hungover I must be.
How much did I drink yesterday?
Finally, I get the courage to peel my eyelids apart, rolling to my side and adjusting to the bright light of the morning. Rays of sunshine splash across the room, and small kaleidoscopes of color reflect on a glass of water sitting on my bedside.
I scrunch my brows and then immediately regret the decision when it makes the pain in my head even worse.
But I don’t remember bringing in a glass of water.
Swallowing around my cotton mouth, I push through the nausea and the general feeling of having died and reach out to grab the glass, the need for a drink overriding the fear of moving.
I take a small sip, my body crying in relief when it hits my tongue.
And this is why I don’t drink outside of a glass of wine or champagne in social settings.
It’s literally never worth it the next morning.
I’m a lightweight, and even worse, there hasn’t been a single time in my entire life when I haven’t gotten the hangover blues. I’m an overthinker on an average day, but add in the depressive episodes after binge drinking, and I’ll convince myself that I should never go in public again, simply from ruminating over all the words and conversations I may or may not have had.
Regret runs thick through my veins, and I look for my phone, my eyes snagging on a piece of paper instead. There’s a note set right next to the pain reliever, and I grab both, downing the pills without a second thought.
I go through everything that happened last night, reeling as I try to remember every single word that I’d said since we got back from my father’s house and I raided the liquor cabinet in Julian’s home.
Groaning, my hands fly to my face, my nails digging into my forehead as if trying to claw the ache away, the leftover embarrassment from everything that happened last night making me want to wither away until I’m nothing.
He must think I’m the stupidest girl on the planet. And that’s probably because I am. Who else would find themselves in hell and make themselves at home with their quintessential captor? Even worse than that, I felt comfortable. Like I belonged. Like I could sit there forever, drinking Julian’s expensive whiskey and watching him force a scowl so he doesn’t break character and smile, and I could never care about anything else again.
But that was just the alcohol talking, and things always look a little different in the daylight.
I pick up the note, rubbing the sleep from my eyes to clear my vision. The nausea gets worse before I even read the words, because I just know it’s from him.
Take the pills. Drink the water. Take a shower.— J
Rolling my eyes, I place the note back down on the table. So damn bossy. Like I wouldn’t have done all those things anyway. Flashes of last night filter slowly through my brain, and while I should probably be thinking about how close he got to crossing a line we absolutely should never cross, instead I can’t stop thinking about how he said he’d introduce me to his mother.
I can’t lie and say I’m not intrigued at the idea of meeting her. To be honest, I had half convinced myself he was a weird anomaly, just showing up on earth as a raging asshole from birth with no parents to give him love. I try to imagine what his childhood looked like, since he was pretty tight-lipped about the whole thing, but I just can’t picture him as a carefree little boy with innocence thrumming through his veins and giggles pouring from his lips.
Despite everything, a tendril of excitement grows inside me. I know I’ll never work up the courage to ask about his family again, not now that I’ve sworn off drinking forever, so I hope that he meant what he said last night.
Honestly, it’s the least he can do after forcing me to be his wife and then running away without letting me come.
I grab my phone, unlocking the screen, hope inflating like a balloon as I see a new notification, thinking that maybe it’s Riya with some more good news.
Then the flash of guilt hits because it’s the first time I didn’t want it to be Aidan.
Doesn’t really matter, I guess, because there’s nothing from him anyway.
Again.
The cracks in my heart fracture just a bit more at the loss of him in my life. Regardless of the fact that I’ve done things with Julian I can’t take back, I still love Aidan, and I still want to find someone who will break me free of Julian’s grasp and let me live my life with Aidan instead.
I switch over to the unopened message.
Riya: We still on for brunch next week on Sunday morning?
I’ve got some news, don’t want to share over the phone.
Me: Yeah, if I can convince my master to set me free.
I smirk at the dark joke, trying to find some humor in this fucked- up situation, but all it really does is make me feel worse.
Tossing my phone back on the nightstand, I ignore the nausea that’s teasing my throat, wishing like hell that pain reliever was instantaneous. All the inventions in the world, and yet we still have to wait twenty to thirty minutes to get rid of a headache. Dragging myself out of bed, I meander into the en suite bathroom, reaching into the large stone shower and flipping the water onto the hottest setting. Then I walk to the double sink, staring at the disaster of a girl in the reflection of the mirror.
Get it together, Yasmin. You’re more than your current circumstance.
I move as slowly as possible while I strip off my clothes, the steam from the shower filling up the room, making it humid and hot. My hands grip the edge of the sink, and I lean down, resting my forehead against the cool white quartz counter, enjoying the way it feels against my sticky, clammy skin. I exhale and lift my head, staring at my reflection again as it distorts and disappears behind the steam of hot water, the mirror fogging completely.
Pushing myself off the sink, I walk across the cool tile floor and then step under the shower, enjoying the multiple nozzles that spray the water from every angle, plus the one directly above my head that rains down like a thunderstorm.
I give in to the feeling of the pelting water, leaning against the wall and bending my head until my hair is drenched, lines of liquid running down the side of my face to collect on the shower floor. I’ll probably regret this later when my hair is a frizzy mess, but right now it feels so good, I’m finding it hard to care.
I’m not sure how long I stand there, hoping the water washes away the grime and scrubs me clean both inside and out, but eventually, I start to feel almost normal, and I flip around, leaning my back against the wall.
My hand sweeps across my collarbone, tickling the skin. I continue the movement, back and forth, slowly feeling my body come alive beneath my own touch, my nipples pebbling even beneath the hot water. I move my fingers down, dragging my hands along the top of my chest until I cup both of my breasts, rolling my nipples between my thumbs and forefingers, enjoying the way sharp pricks of pleasure are sparking from my touch.
Similar to the last time I touched myself in the shower, I close my eyes and lean my head back against the wall, imagining Aidan in front of me, that his hands are touching me softly. He’s the only other person besides Julian who has, and I refuse to picture the man I’m supposed to hate.
I bite into my lower lip as I keep working my way down, brushing my hand across the expanse of my stomach, feeling the skin pucker with goose bumps. The tops of my hip bones are next, and if I try hard enough, I can see the way Aidan would lean in, pressing a sloppy kiss to my body while he whispered sweet words into my skin. I sigh with happiness, getting lost in the fantasy as I ghost my fingers over my pussy.
The second I brush my clit, the image transforms, another set of eyes flashing in my head. It’s brief and then it’s gone, but it sends a shot of heat spearing through my middle like it’s cutting me in half. My back arches off the stone wall and I let out a small gasp.
I don’t know what the hell that was, but it felt good, so I do it again, applying more pressure the second time. My abs clench tight, and in my head, Aidan’s soft hands turn into rough tattooed fingers.
No.
Shaking off the image, I try to force Aidan back into my brain, but my body is needy and my mind is rebelling, and the second I grasp my breast with my left hand and slip my right one through the wetness pooling between my legs, Aidan disappears completely, and dark, almost- black eyes stare up at me while he kneels on the shower floor.
A small moan involuntarily escapes me, my clit swelling beneath my touch as I start to move my fingers back and forth over the sensitive area, arousal coiling around the base of my spine and spreading like rolling fog.
I give in to the fantasy.
Something sharp and heady spears through my middle, my nerves on edge from every single touch. I remember the way it felt to have Julian’s hands on me and his hard cock pressing against my center as I ground myself against him and listened to his dirty words against my skin. And then it flits to another memory of the heated look in Julian’s stare when he was watching me through a crack in the door, his eyes like fire as my pussy got licked by another man.
My hand shoots out and pulls on a detachable showerhead, bringing it down until the water beats against my clit, and my breath whooshes out of me as my pussy spasms from the pressure.
God, that feels good.
I rotate my hips, grinding against the nozzle, the rhythmic pulses of the water making heat spread through my body like a wildfire. In my mind, Julian’s not standing at the door anymore. Instead, he’s walking into the room with that confident swagger that he always has, and he’s standing next to me on that small twin bed, reaching down and palming my breast like it’s his right.
I mimic the movement with my own hand, rolling the nipple between my fingers, my other hand moving the showerhead back and forth, the heavy water pressure teasing my sensitive nerves.
Julian leans down, his eyes locking on mine and his other hand brushing along the side of my face, the way he always does.
Pleasure skitters along my spine and my muscles tense.
“Come for me, gattina,” he rasps.
And I do, my body exploding, wave after wave of euphoria spreading through every single part of me as I come harder than I ever have before, my legs shaking around the metal of the shower nozzle.
Slowly, my soul comes back to my body, and as it does, the regret starts to wind its way around my neck and squeeze, disgust hitting me full force in the gut.
I just got off to thoughts of my husband. Again.
And I liked it.
I am absolutely not in control.
