Even if he does it himself sometimes.
Even if his knife stabs me deeper with each passing day that his lips refuse to meet mine.
Once upon a time, I thought I’d gotten over him.
Turns out, I’m still waiting for him to kiss me back.
29
Nathaniel
Gwyneth said she doesn’t like hiking.
Then she wakes up early this morning, puts on her clothes, and says, “Take me hiking, husband.”
So I did exactly that, then fucked her against a tree to teach her how to behave and not be a flirt. Although, in her case, that only makes her act out more.
Over the weekend, hiking has grown on her so much that she doesn’t even need me to carry her on my back anymore. I’ve done it anyway because her tiny body wraps all around me and she plays with my hair and face and neck and anywhere her hands can reach.
She’s a touchy person. One who needs physical contact to feel connected. But she doesn’t go around touching everyone, just her inner circle that she deems safe.
At the moment, I’m in the middle of that circle and it’s a fucking wild ride.
Any time spent in her presence is. Even when she’s sleeping, she stretches her body out all over me and hides her face in my neck. Or she lays her head on my lap and flings her legs in the air.
Like right now.
She was reading her negative words list and telling me how she worked hard to desensitize herself to them. Not only is Gwyneth a storyteller, but she’s an entertaining one at that, which is why I know she’ll make a good lawyer, especially for civil cases. She’ll be able to spin her own stories and capture the audience, and that’s what makes the best lawyers. Even those who only chose law due to having a grudge against the system, such as Knox, can succeed as long as they’re good storytellers.
“Dad never knew about this,” she says in a sleepy voice, then closes her eyes.
As if King wouldn’t know anything about her.
He’s the one who put her in therapy because he’s so attuned to her and her needs. She thought he did it because of her sleep-talking, but it was also because she showed signs of depression. She started showing them after she accidentally learned that her mother threw her away without looking back.
I slowly pull the notebook from her fingers, not wanting to wake her up. Her insomnia has gotten better lately and she sometimes sleeps through the night.
Still keeping the notebook in hand, I slowly put her legs down. She doesn’t open her eyes as she climbs into my lap, wraps her arms around my shoulders, and hides her face in my neck.
Her breathing slowly evens out and she sighs into the hollow of my throat. The small puff of air makes my dick fucking hard and I release a breath through my clenched teeth.
Gwyneth makes me a sex addict, unable to get enough, no matter how much I take her. No matter how much I feel her warmth and hear her moans, I need more. And it is a need. One I can’t fucking stop or restrain.
I’m about to close her notebook and carry her to bed when the page flips to the letter M.
My chest squeezes when I see the first word there. Gwyneth says she categorizes them by colors. The red is for the hardest ones to get over.
And the first word under the letter M is written in a thick red marker. A word that shouldn’t be in the negative words list in the first place.
Mom.
It has several red lines underneath it—bold, messy, harsh—and I can imagine her furrowed brow and stiff movements when she did this. When she decided Mom is the worst word under the letter M. Like she thinks death is the worst word under the letter D.
“You’ve never gotten over her even though you’ve never met her, have you?” I ask her sleeping form, stroking her auburn strands away from her forehead.
This must be why she’s been asking if King was searching for her. Does she want to find her? She’s never expressed that before, neither to me nor to her father.
It’s understandable in King’s case since he’s the founder of Gwyneth’s mother’s anti-fan club, but she’s never talked to me about it.
Or maybe I wasn’t listening.
She stirs, moaning softly in my neck, before she pulls back and stares at me, then at the notebook that’s still open on the letter M.
All sleep whooshes away from her face as she startles and snatches it from my fingers. She staggers to the other side of the sofa, pulling it close to her chest.
“It means nothing.” She smiles, but it’s with effort and barely-there. This woman can’t fake a smile to save her life and it’s weirdly endearing.
“Do you want to find her?”