CHAPTER 37
BRENDA'S POV
The evening was folding in ways I never imagined. First, I saw Christian—and now, here we were, talking and drinking beer.
Lord, what kind of trick is this?
He said he was here to meet a friend, but why did my stomach twist like it had been trampled on by a wild animal? It was insane—completely crazy—because I, myself, had come to meet someone, and guess what? We had been stood up.
"Why?" I asked suddenly, my throat tight, eyes burning with heat.
"Why what?" he replied, clearly taken aback by my abrupt, off-topic question.
"Why did you leave me? Was I that bad?" Tears streamed down my cheeks despite my desperate effort to hold them back.
Christian opened his mouth, but no words came out.
"We were perfect for each other," I continued, voice breaking. "You completed me… I thought I did the same for you, but clearly… I didn't!"
"Brenda… let's not do this, please. Not tonight," he said, his eyes carrying something I hated—pity. That fool pitied me.
I jumped from the barstool, almost bolting for the door, when a hand caught my wrist. My body collided with his chest with a soft thud.
"Where are you going?"
"To my house! Now. Let. Me. Go!" I screamed, loud enough for heads to turn.
"Sorry… please, she's drunk!" Christian apologized to no one in particular, dragging me out of the bar.
He let go of my hand briefly to get his keys, and I saw my chance. I ran. Fast. Heart pounding like it would burst. But Christian was on me in seconds.
"What the fuck is your problem, Brenda? Quit acting like a toddler!" His patience was stretched thin, but I didn't care. I didn't need his help.
"You're the one acting like a child! I'm going home in my car!" I stomped my foot like a brat.
He took several deep breaths. "Let me drive you! You can't drive like this, you're drunk—it's not safe!"
"I'm not getting in your car! I have a car I bought with my hard-earned money! Stop forcing me!"
He ran a hand through his hair, like trying to regain control of his own sanity.
"GET YOUR ASS IN THE FUCKING CAR!"
And just like that, I entered. The finality in his voice told me he wouldn't tolerate my antics for another second. Hell, I knew I couldn't drive in this state anyway.
The ride was silent. I fell asleep, unknowing, wrapped in a fog of shame and lingering anger.
I woke slowly. We were at my house.
"Key?" he asked.
I wiggled my hand, and he took the bracelet with it. He guided me to the bedroom, laying me on the bed.
"You need a shower," he said, a command more than a suggestion.
I wrinkled my nose and sniffed my armpits, shaking my head.
"No! I smell good. Wanna take a sniff?" I spread my arms, giggling uncontrollably.
A small smile tugged at his lips. He tucked me in, whispered goodnight, and started to leave.
But a lump formed in my throat. I needed to speak, needed to release the storm inside me.
"Am I that unlovable? Am I…" I stopped myself to hold back tears. "…I'm successful, I'm smart… I can cook and clean… All the men I've been with… take me for granted!"
Christian didn't move, didn't respond.
"As a man—not just any man, but one I loved—I need you to tell me… what's wrong with me? I need to know!" My voice broke. I felt raw, exposed, stripped of armor. Love was hard enough, but watching it leave without reason was excruciating.
Seeing me crumble, Christian rushed to my side. I struggled, thrashing against him, but I couldn't deny that it was his presence that had me questioning myself. I buried my face against his chest and cried, hard and shuddering, until the tremors of my grief began to fade.
When I calmed slightly, he raised my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze.
"There's nothing wrong with you. You're an amazing woman." His lips pressed gently to mine. Something dormant flickered inside me, briefly lit and gone. He pulled back, doubt etched across his face. He wasn't moving forward without permission.
I pulled him to me. The kiss ignited—a hungry, wet, desperate thing. Not slow, not tender. Hungry. Raw. Passionate. The kind that screamed, Where the fuck have you been all my life?
Our clothes hit the floor. Naked, pressed together, his fingers teasing my nipples. I bit my bottom lip to stifle soft whimpers. His fingers traveled down, brushing my stomach, grazing me in ways that left me gasping, breath hitching like it was the first time he'd touched me.
Finally, he found his mark. My body jerked backward when he pressed his thumb against me—but futile. His hand clamped the back of my head, pulling me into a ravenous kiss as he continued to tease.
"Do you want me to stop?" he asked.
I shook my head, wordless, craving him.
He lowered his head. I knew what was coming. He parted my legs, his middle finger exploring me again and again, driving me to the edge. I grabbed his wrist.
"Not anymore… please!" I begged, sweat slicking my skin.
"I've always known you to be responsive… but not too responsive," he smirked, satisfied. He knew exactly how to bend me, twist me, have me wrapped around his finger.
His tongue traced me up to my clit. I moaned, arching against him. His two fingers penetrated me as his tongue worked me mercilessly. My hands were pinned by his free hand. My abdomen coiled, a tight knot of sensation building.
"Christian… I'm…" I gasped as his fingers plunged deep. And then I shattered, scattering into tiny pieces, lost to ecstasy, vision blurring, drunk on pleasure.
He rose above me, eyes locked with mine. One leg draped over his waist. He rubbed himself along my entrance.
"Don't!" I gasped, but in one swift motion, he entered me. His length felt foreign, impossible, perfect.
I've slept with Christian before. But that night, it was different. Savage, insatiable. Pain and pleasure fused into one. Every thrust hit my cervix. I craved the sting, the force. I let him have all of me.
He pulled me to the edge of the bed, legs over his shoulders, gripping my thighs. He plunged in again. I screamed, tears blurring my vision. He hit deeper, relentlessly, as if nothing could satisfy him.
His fingers found my bundle of nerves again, rough and precise. My release neared. His pace quickened. I broke first, a torrent of sensation, and then—he followed, grunting deeply, emptying into me, collapsing beside me.
Sweat slicked, bodies entwined. I wanted to sleep, but a low voice broke through:
"Oh, not yet darling… we've just started. Seven more to go."
I woke early, hearing clothes rustling. He was dressed, leaving.
"You're leaving?" I asked.
"Yeah," he said, casual, buttoning his shirt. "Didn't want to disturb your peace when you woke to find me in your bed."
"You could stay…" I sat up. "I don't mind."
"I do." His eyes were cold, hard—a look I'd never seen.
I swallowed, trying to steady the storm in me. Tears flowed anyway.
"So… about last night… what are we? Are we back together?" My fingers clutched the sheets. I needed the truth, even if it broke me.
"Brenda, yesterday was incredible. Fun. That's all. Just fun." Cold. Like a bucket of ice water to my chest. The night—the passion, the stolen kisses, the moans—meant nothing to him?
I nodded, trying to convince myself. "Fun… just fun," I whispered, broken.
"I thought we'd be fine after last night!" My voice cracked. "What we had wasn't just sex to me—it was more! I thought I had you back, Christian!" I reached for him, pleading. "We can make this work! I still love you! I tried to forget you, but then you showed up. It became impossible to do that!"
He stopped me. "Brenda… let's not hurt ourselves anymore. I've met someone… someone I hope will be what you couldn't be. But we can still be friends."
"Friends?" I flinched. "I don't want to be your fucking friend. I just… want you to love me back! Is that too much to ask?"
He straightened. "I'm sorry. I can't give you more than what happened behind these four walls." I watched as he walked away.
I fell to my knees, staring at my reflection in the broken mirror. The woman staring back at me wasn't me—or at least, not the me I used to know. She was someone stripped bare, desperate for a love that had walked out like it was nothing.
I stayed on the floor long after the door clicked shut, the echo of his footsteps carving into my chest. My body ached—not from last night's fire, but from the emptiness he left behind. Every stolen moan, every touch I had begged for… meaningless. And yet, somewhere in the wreckage of my heart, a stubborn spark refused to die. I hated it, I hated him, but I couldn't make it vanish.
Even as my chest heaved and tears blurred my vision, a part of me still craved him, still whispered his name in the silence of my soul.
I had been hit by a train, torn apart like splintered glass, operated on without anesthesia. This was pain without description—pain that could either crush me or harden me into ice.