Page 9 of Wanting Mr Black
His hands slide up my thighs. “There’s nothing.”
“Because if there is …”
He presses two fingers against my lips and silences me. “There’s nothing.”
Intent flashes in his eyes, and I feel a tug between my legs as he slowly withdraws his fingers from my lips.
I want him.
And he wants me.
I’m weak, and I hate myself for it. I need to go. Staying will lead to the inevitable, and I’m not ready.
“I should go.”
A look of anguish flits across his face, and his hands curl around mine, keeping me in my seat. “Stay.”
I look down at his hands covering mine in my lap. I want to. “I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“You know why not,” I reply without looking at him. “And it’s too soon.”
“Please, stay.” His voice is barely a whisper, and hope-filled eyes study my reaction. “I can’t spend another night without you.”
My heart turns over, and I link my fingers through his. I don’t want to spend another night without him either. He lowers his eyes to our hands, where they lie in my lap, and a sliver of a smile creeps across his face. I’m not quite ready for everything to snap back to how things were. If I’m staying, then it can’t be in the same bed as him.
“Okay, but I’ll sleep in the guest room.”
He frowns again, clearly not totally at ease with the suggestion but he’ll go with the compromise. “No, I’ll take the guest room. I insist.”
Six
I’m surrounded by darkness, yet this time, I know exactly where I am. There’s a heavy weight on top of me, and the stench of lager and cigarettes fills my nostrils. Hot, acrid breath pants against my face as he relentlessly rams into me, inciting pain where pleasure should be. Saliva fills my mouth, and I know nausea is close, but I swallow it down and go to my happy place, like I always do when he does this to me.
I’m eight years old, in Cornwall with my mum and dad. We go every summer holiday. We’ve picked a sheltered spot on the beach, close to the rocks and out of the wind. Mum’s sunning herself on a folding chair. Dad sits on a stool with hiswatercolours and pad, painting the ocean in front of us. I’m beside him on my Minnie Mouse beach towel with my colouring pencils, copying what he’s painting while he gives me words of encouragement.
Suddenly, bony fingertips increase their grip around my neck, closing down my throat and splintering my memory in two.
“I can’t breathe,” I choke out, but my protest is merely met with a grunt.
I tell myself it will all be over soon. Just another couple of minutes of pain and discomfort – thank God – but his fingers tighten further.
“Theo, stop …”
He doesn’t respond, and the world is closing in on me and getting darker. I try to speak, but I can’t, and panic starts to rise in my chest as I realise I’m going to suffocate.
He’s going to kill me. I’m going to die here.
Then, everything goes black.
“Sophie … Sophie … wake up.”
I sit bolt upright in fright, frantically looking round in the darkness to gather my bearings. A large hand on my shoulder soothes me gently. The sound of my heartbeat thuds deafeningly in my ears, and my brain is fuzzy with disorientation.
Art sits on the bed and leans over to flick on the lamp. We blink at each other in the sudden light. He looks concerned.
“It’s okay; you’re safe. Calm down. It was just a nightmare.”