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I was pained by his pain, for whatever foolish reason. He certainly hadn’t shown any concern for mine. But more interestingly, I was fascinated by his pain. I could imagine how he carried it, where he stuffed the details of his misery. Inside this bottle of scotch. Under that heartless remark. Behind this wall of indifference.
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“I didn’t want to notice you,” he said so quietly it was almost a whisper. “And now I don’t know how not to.”
“I don't want you to touch me like Weston,” I said, once and for all. “I don’t want Weston! I want you!” Donovan let loose the smallest hint of a smile. “I know. I was waiting for you to know too.”
“I could have anyone’s mouth on me,” he said, his breaths short. “Any woman I want. Money can buy the prettiest lips, the most famous mouths, the deepest throats. And still, for ten years, all I can think about is your mouth. It’s only yours I want. Why can’t I get over your goddamn lips?”
“You distract me,” he said quietly, honestly. “If I spend any time around you, I can’t focus for days. You sent that picture of your pretty little cunt, and I couldn’t even look at my phone all week without getting hard. I avoided you because it was the only way I knew how to deal with you.”
Number one—this was what he meant when he said he got obsessed with women he loved. Number two—Donovan was in love with me.
