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I’m about to get down on my knees for you and take you the fuck apart, piece by piece until I turn you inside out.”
“I want you. That’s never been the fucking issue. Jesus Christ, I fucking want you. All the time, every day. To the edge of my own goddamn sanity, I want you—”
For a handful of seconds, it was more combustion than desire, all that furious chemistry flowing between us and igniting like magma. Incendiary to the point of pain. That’s what it felt like.
“You want to know that I’m suffering. That’s what it is, isn’t it? You want to see me suffering? Then fucking look at me. Because I am.”
“You were right. What you said in my room that night about whether I could get over you? I can’t. I’m fucking wrecked. I want to be with you, asshole, so name the terms, because I can’t do it for you. I can’t make any of these choices for you any more than I can stop wanting you. I thought I could and I can’t. It has to be you who makes the call.”
“You’re looking at him. Meaning me. He’s my…he’s mine,” I stammered out, just lobbed the awkward clusterfuck of grammar and poor syntax on the table to sit there alongside the stupid turkey centerpiece. Why I couldn’t say boyfriend, I had no idea. It sounded too cutesy for a guy who regularly turned me inside out in amazing and obscene ways, while lover sounded too fucking bourgeois. Mine was maybe too possessive, but since Eric pretty much owned my body and all my thought processes, it seemed a fair claim in return.
