God.
I’d wanted Cameron with a hunger that had no business being in this flat, on this night, under this roof. The silence pressed around me, thick and accusing. I pulled the sheets higher, even though the room was warm.
This wasn’t supposed to happen.
I was supposed to control myself, to compartmentalise, to shut my body off like a switch and file away every feeling into neat, manageable categories.
Instead, Cameron had walked through my front door and my whole system had buckled.
A sound tumbled from my lips, born of frustration, shame, or something in between.
I turned onto my side, but the movement only made me more aware of the stickiness on my stomach, the rapid beat of my heart, the way pleasure still pulsed through my body. I exhaled sharply, and the low, chiding voice in my head was threaded with that familiar undercurrent of amused disappointment Luka had always wielded like a scalpel.
“Honestly, Theo. You really can’t control yourself, can you?”
My stomach dropped.
“No,” I whispered, squeezing my eyes shut. “Not now. Not tonight.”
Memory could be a relentless bitch.
I’d been twenty, new to everything—sex, intimacy, bodies—and so desperate to be good at it. To be good for Luka, or at least good in the way Luka defined it.
The first time I’d gotten close too quickly, Luka had stilled inside me and laughed, not in outright cruelty, but cruel in ateasing, knowing way that crawled under my skin. I could still feel that laughter reverberating through my body.
“Slow down,” Luka had murmured, his mouth curved. “You’re always rushing. It’s like you’re embarrassed to want anything.”
I’d flushed, mortified. I’d apologised without being asked, and Luka had given a pleased hum before resuming his slow, torturous thrusts while I tried to hold back my orgasm.
Later that night, when I’d unconsciously reached for him again, Luka had caught my wrist, firm enough to freeze me.
“See? This is what I mean. You’re better when you’re quiet. When you let me lead.”
Except in Luka’s vocabulary, better had meant quiet, obedient.
I’d internalised it like scripture, because Luka had given me attention and affection. There had even been moments of validation, all of which he took away the moment I stepped out of line.
After a few months, I learnt to mute my pleasure, my needs. I also learnt to be quieter.
I became efficient, careful, and controlled, an instrument Luka could tune as he liked.
That was the beginning of it, the end of instinct.
The start of shame.
I shuddered out a breath. I turned my face into the pillow, as if that alone could silence the echo of Luka’s voice. But the guilt was already here, heavy and smothering. Luka’s words tangled with the fresh memory of Cameron’s smile as he’d thanked me sincerely.
And here was I, minutes later, doingthis. Wanting him enough to fall apart alone in the dark like some lovesick, pathetic version of myself.
I swallowed hard. My throat ached.
I hated how right it had felt in the moment, and how wrong it felt now.
I hated that I couldn’t tell the difference between desire and danger anymore.
I tried to ground myself.
I shouldn’t want him.