“Thank you,” I murmur against his shirt, “for bringing me here.” I look up, into his eyes, the close proximity letting me see the thick eyelashes that frame his green eyes.
He shifts, his hands moving lower until they are around my waist and he lifts, surprising me, my hands gripping his shoulders, my legs moving as he drags me atop his lap. I shift, repositioning my legs until I am straddling him, my knees against the blanket, his hands soft on my waist, his face looking up into mine. “I love you,” he whispers. He pulls at my coat, lifts his mouth to mine, but I stop him, place a hand on his chest and look into his eyes.
Vulnerable. They look vulnerable. He loves me. I forget, for a moment, to breathe. It is here, the moment I have fought, hoped against while secretly desired. I am loved. Me: dirty, rotten me. The man hasn’t even had me, our touches restricted to heavy petting and third base, our dates mostly centered on food or bringing me items I have been deprived of. “You don’t know me enough to love me.” I grip his jacket, pin him into place with my eyes, make sure that he hears the words I hate to say. “The things that I think of, the things that I have done… I am not worthy of being loved by you.”
“We don’t choose who we love, Deanna. You are beautiful to me. Perfect to me. Despite what you struggle with. Your struggle…” His eyes leave me for a moment, searching for words; then they come back to me, wisps of smoke leaving his mouth in the chilled night air. “Your struggle is part of what makes you beautiful. You don’t see what I see. You don’t see the good person that I know that you are.” He runs a hand up my back, tugs firmly on my hair. “Don’t argue with me. I know how I feel. I just wanted you to know. I’ve been holding it in too long. I love you.”
He tries to pull me to him, to kiss me, but I stop him again, my hand firmer this time as words spill out that I have no business saying. “I love you too.” I make sure that he sees me, understands me, the second time the words coming out softer. “I love you.”
It is a horrible thing to say, this is a terrible moment for the future of our relationship, for the future of my rules and control and safeguards. But his mouth tugs into a grin, the widest I’ve ever seen it, and I don’t fight it when his hands cradle my head and pull me to his mouth. Behind me, the fireworks begin their display, the shake of the ground fitting the moment when our lips meet.
I kiss him and push aside the howl of my conscience. In this moment, I don’t want to think about the future and what disasters it may hold. I kiss him and celebrate the rush of love and passion and elation. I am a girl in love with a boy and—at eight on a Wednesday night—am getting kissed underneath fireworks. Hello normal, I am Deanna. Nice to make your acquaintance.
In that moment, in that kiss, I choose to believe anything is possible. I choose to forget all of the horrible things that “anything” can include.
CHAPTER 35
House Arrest Countdown: 1 Month
TONIGHT IS THE night, the time to reintroduce the idea of a face-to-face meeting. Marcus can’t wait any longer, his impatience won’t allow for that. He smooths his hair down, forgetting for a brief moment that she can’t see him. He’ll use the fucking please word that she has such attachment to. Will mask his anger during the chat. Charm her. He has the ability, just hasn’t used it the last two years of imprisonment. Then at the end, when she is smiling and hearts and flowers are filling the space between them, he’ll bring up meeting in person. Will offer more money. Ten grand if need be. But she needs to say yes. He’s already decided that she will be his reward. For two years without pussy. For two years of imprisonment he didn’t deserve. Breaking her will be empowering, will give him his cojones back. He’ll probably have to kill her. Dirty his hands in a way he has never done. In this return to glory, it’s important to him that she knows it is him—he needs to have her break with his name on her lips. That will be the best part of it all, her fall from superiority. Her transition into her rightful place of subservience.
It takes three hours of attempts to get her into a private chat, but finally she is on his screen, lit up in crisp high-definition, gorgeous on the new, bigger laptop he had ordered in.
“Hey.”
He can tell by the slight hesitation that she recognizes his name, despite the weeks that have passed since he last had her. Weeks that he spent with other camgirls, discovering the same thing, time after time, blonde after brunette after redhead: they weren’t her, they didn’t have it. There is something about her that calls to him, a mystery behind the smile that he wants to reach out and bring to the surface. He isn’t the only one. The men all fight for her like pigs at feeding time, anxious to throw their money at the tiny girl with the big smile.