Page 97 of Hate to Love You
In my journey toward healing, I’ve heard all sorts of advice, the strongest of which being that in order to fully move on, I need to rediscover who I am, and reclaim my power.
Well, I reclaimed power by killing my husband, and killing other abusers.
A therapist wouldn’t know whether to arrest me, or to treat me, and lord knows a typical man would know even less than that.
That’s the reason I know that any man I might pick up and bring home, would likely leave me unsatisfied.
That, and the fact that most of the time, I need it a little rough to get off.
My late husband used to give it to me rough, but that had little to do with my satisfaction, and more so because that was just another form of abuse. He got rougher each time, crossing each and every line I set. Looking back, I sometimes wonder if that’s where the abuse started.
But my mind wanders.
How rough would Roman be?
I can tell he likes to take control, and he seems like the type who would like submission in the bedroom.
No, not like…need.
He needs submission, and not just from the people who work in the office, but from everyone in his life.
My insides clench as images flash in my head. Images of Roman, his head thrown back, ramming into me, his neck flexing as a bead of sweat rolled down his perfect abs.
God, I bet he would dominate me. And fuck, I’d let him.
The heat is replaced by anger as I remember the way some of the girls at the office look at him, or say hello to him. Alison and Jenny try relentlessly, but the worst offender is the blonde bitch from accounting.
Heather.
The same Heather from the story idiots one and two were telling me the other day, who had sucked him off in his VIP section.
I’d nearly forgotten about it until she strolled on to the floor yesterday and shamelessly flirted with him.
The way she’d seductively rolled “Mr. Antonov” off her tongue, her eyes glued to him, before not-so-subtly descending to his crotch. Each time she batted her fake eyelashes at him, I wanted to tear them off her eyes, and scratch her eyes out.
For no reason whatsoever, I’d almost wanted to mark my territory. Yet it was like something about Roman practically demanded I did.
Ugh. Stop it Abigail. Focus on the mark, not the man.
There was a lot of information to unpack from this lunch, and the more I learn about him, the more I feel like I might be slightly out of my depth here.
Obviously, the big thing was the bomb, but the other significant feature of interest was his comment about loving torture.
Who does he torture? And why?
He also seems a bit…paranoid.
The moment someone other than the owner came to the table to take our order he lost it. Poor Trevor looked petrified, stumbling through the rest of our entire interaction.
And speaking of our interaction, Roman went from being charming, and dare I say flirty one minute, to confrontational and flighty.
Then there was the timing. He’d marched us out of the building so fast I nearly got whiplash. And the bomb goes off conveniently just after we leave, and the man isn’t even fazed?
He gave me some bullshit explanation, but I couldn’t help but feel like it didn’t really fit with who Roman is, nor did it do anything to quell my suspicions.
Today has confirmed one thing for me though: attractive or not, Roman Antonov is a bad person.
And bad people don’t live very long around me.