All the Truths (Lies & Truths 2)

She looks so fragile right now, I’m tempted to fuck her in all possible positions.

My dick resurrects back to life, agreeing to that idea.

I sit on the mattress and clean my cum off her ass, though I’d prefer it stayed there. But no worries, I’ll repeat this—eventually.

With each stroke of the towel against her skin, Reina mumbles something in her sleep. She almost looks like a kid when she’s this way, off guard and…innocent.

She always had this certain type of innocence about her that she hid behind her cold exterior. No one managed to come close enough to know the real Reina, let alone her innocent side.

I did.

I’m the one who knows her best, her secret love for mac and cheese, how she stays up late to binge-watch Netflix, how she drinks her lattes, how she hates attention even though it appears she thrives on it.

But where did that leave me?

The memory from three years ago barges back into my head and I curse.

I can’t even touch her without being overwhelmed by that crippling guilt. I can’t find pleasure without being shoved into the clutches of pain.

Those who say physical pain is the worst have never experienced

being tortured by their own brain.

They’ve never sat down and felt disgusted with themselves for wanting someone they shouldn’t.

“Fuck.” I rise to my feet and throw a sheet over Reina’s naked body before exiting the room.

I can’t stay with her or my brain will eat me alive. It’ll feast on my thoughts and leave me a fucking cripple.

For the past week, I thought if I never really fucked her, if I only played around with her, I’d be safe from these dark thoughts.

Turns out, it was useless.

The longer I stayed away, the harder I wanted her, the faster I needed to touch her.

That’s how disasters start. First, it’s a want, then it becomes determination, and then she challenges me and all I can do is fuck her like an animal. Then like a goddamn lover. Then like she’s my slut.

I run a hand through my hair as I toss the towel in the bin.

My phone vibrates on the kitchen counter and I pick it up without checking the name. I need a distraction like I need air.

“Hey, fucker.”

An inward groan slips from me as I recognize the British accent and the voice associated with it. I should’ve checked the name. Aiden King is the last person I need with my current mood.

“Isn’t it two in the morning or something in England?” I pace to the balcony, not bothering to put on any clothes. The building across the way is welcome to enjoy the show.

“And?” He sounds bored.

“Sleep, motherfucker—have you heard of it?”

“Sleeping is for neurotypical people.”

I should’ve known he would say something like that. The thing about Aiden is he’s proud of what he is, of who he is. He knows he’s not normal emotion-wise but he embraces it—just like I did after Ari’s death. That’s why we became sort of friends when I used to study at Oxford. We like the clash of power, the freedom to do whatever we fucking please while sheep follow orders.

“Are you returning any time soon?”

“Why?” I grin. “Miss me?”