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The most annoying thing about men is they always assume that you actually give a damn what they’re talking about.
What you see seems to be what you get. And what I see is an asshole.
“You can do a lot of things. It doesn’t mean you should have to.” And with that, he begins to lead the way toward something that’s caught his eye.
“One last chance, shortcake. Tell me who you’re sending them to.” “Why? So you can laugh with them?” “No, so I can tell them to lose your fucking number.”
“Yes. For me. Why can’t a woman take sexy pictures of herself and keep them just for herself? On days when I’m tired or I’m covered in flour and in a pair of old jeans and a T-shirt, I like to look back at pictures like this and remember the times I felt beautiful and sexy.”
I’m never like this. I’m not territorial, and I’ve never cared about someone enough to want to claim them. But in the darkness of the night and the heat of the moment, I’m feral at the idea of any other man ever getting to taste her delicate skin.
“Fuck it,” he growls, grabbing both sides of the shirt and ripping it open.
“Good girl,” he pants.
I take a deep breath, collecting my thoughts before speaking up. “I didn’t know love until I knew you. And I’m trying to figure it out because I want to do better—be better—for you. But I can’t do that if you won’t let me. There’s nothing I can say if you want to give up the second things get hard. But I do love you. I love you in a way that consumes me. You’re my every thought, every dream, my entire being. I love you so much that it fucking hurts you think I wouldn’t do anything, give up anything, to make us work.”
