ting my
sympathy?
“Ana, look at me.”
I can’t. I know that if I do, I will burst into tears. This
is just too much to absorb. I’m like an overflowing tank of
gasoline—full, beyond capacity. There is no room for any
more. I simply cannot cope with any more crap. I will
combust and explode, and it will be ugly if I try. Jeez!
Christian caring for his ex-sub in such an intimate
fashion—the image flashes through my brain. Bathing her,
for fuck’s sake—naked. A harsh, painful shudder wracks
my body.
“Ana.”
“What?”
“Don’t. It doesn’t mean anything. It was like caring for
a child, a broken, shattered child,” he mutters.
What the hell would he know about caring for a child?
This was a woman he had a very full-on, deviant sexual
relationship with.
Oh, this hurts. I take a deep, steadying breath. Or
perhaps he’s referring to himself. He’s the broken child.
That makes more sense . . . or maybe it makes no sense at
all. Oh, this is so fucked-up, and suddenly I’m bone
crushingly tired. I need sleep.
“Ana?”
I stand, take my plate to the sink, and scrape the
I stand, take my plate to the sink, and scrape the
contents into the trash.
“Ana, please.”
I whirl around and face him. “Just stop, Christian! Just
stop with the ‘Ana, please’!” I shout at him, and my tears
start to trickle down my face. “I’ve had enough of all this
shit today. I am going to bed. I am tired and emotional.
Now let me be.”
I turn on my heel and practically run to the bedroom,
taking with me the memory of his wide-eyed, shocked
stare. Nice to know I can shock him, too. I strip out of my
clothes in double-quick time, and after rifling through his
chest of drawers, drag on one of his T-shirts and head for
the bathroom.
I gaze at myself in the mirror, hardly recognizing the
gaunt, pink-eyed, blotchy-cheeked harridan staring back
at me, and it’s too much. I sink to the floor and surrender
to the overwhelming emotion I can no longer contain,
sobbing huge chest-wrenching sobs, finally letting my tears
flow unrestrained.
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