I’d like to make love with Christian in front of this fire. Yes, that would be fun. No doubt, he’d think of some way to make it memorable like all the times we’ve made love. I snort wryly to myself, even the times when we were just fucking. Yes, those were pretty memorable, too.
OK, so you guys have a killer sex life. We know this, so stop bragging already, since the rest of your relationship has some serious issues that you should be, at the least, very concerned about.
I wrap my arms around myself, and the world falls away from me and reality bleeds into my consciousness. The creeping emptiness inside expands some more.
I can see his shy smile—my favorite of all his expressions, a glimpse of the real Christian, my real Christian. He is so many people: control freak, CEO, stalker, sex god, Dom—and at the same time—such a boy with his toys.
Okay, look at two of these words describing Christian: control freak and stalker. I’m not seeing how the rest of the words in the group would cancel out these two negative qualities, especially considering that CEOs and Doms have an equal probability of being good or bad things (which means that these are more or less neutral words). Control freak and stalker are huge alarm bells here; I don’t see how sex god and such a boy with his toys can cancel out the more problematic, and extremely alarming, qualities in this man.
Oh, Mom. My lip trembles at the thought of my mother. Should I call her? No. I couldn’t deal with her reaction.
Does this make sense? She doesn’t give her mom any credit. As a matter of fact, she is being a little passive aggressive here. Her mom has already proven to be supportive of her when given the opportunity, and in a way Ana is denying her mom an opportunity to be supportive in a situation when it really might be needed because Ana”couldn’t deal with her reaction.” Just — ugh!
I open my eyes and gaze unseeing into the fire once more, memories of our time together flitting through my mind: his boyish joy when we were sailing and gliding; his suave, sophisticated, hot-as-hell look at the masked ball; dancing, oh yes, dancing here in the apartment to Sinatra, whirling round the room; his quiet, anxious hope yesterday at the house—that stunning view.
That view! That vista! Holy fuck! Sounds like this relationship was a nightmare come true!
With each passing hour, the clawing emptiness expands, consuming me, choking me. I know deep down inside I am preparing myself, preparing myself for the worst.
As the tears stream down my face, I can see it all. The great room is bathed in it—unconditional love. He has it in spades; he’s just never accepted it before, and even now he’s at a total loss.
And that’s a wrap for today!