Montana Desire

“All the other stuff I mentioned and more. It’s not unreasonable.”

“More, like what?”

I rolled my eyes. “Forget it. If sex in the shower causes you to freak out, there’s no point in talking about the other things.”

“No, I want to know.”

“No.” I shook my head and finished the last of my wine. “There’s no point in even discussing it.”

Honestly, I wasn’t sure there was any point in discussing anything at all with him anymore.

“Just fucking tell me, Cori.”

How dare he take that tone with me. As if I were the one being unreasonable.

I did something I rarely did. I lost my temper.

“Toys. Us using my vibrator while we’re having sex, Joel. Other positions…all the positions. Standing up, sitting down, you behind me pulling my hair as you pound me hard. Oral. Anal. Everything.” I didn’t yell, even in my fury. It was ingrained in me. Nobody in my family ever yelled.

Whatever tiny hope I’d had that he might be on board with what I desired once he heard it disappeared at the look of disgust on his face.

“You’re a Jackson,” he spat. “You shouldn’t want those things.”

Suddenly it was clear that was why he’d been with me all along. He wanted to be connected to my family, and I was the easiest link. “Right. Because Jacksons aren’t human. We’re surgical machines. Well, not me, obviously.”

“You can learn to be normal. To want normal things in bed.”

I set my wineglass down before I got tempted to throw it at him. “I don’t want normal. And I sure as hell don’t want your normal. I want to be blindfolded, tied up, spanked, more.”

His eyes narrowed, and his face turned a mottled red. “You’re nothing but a whore. I can’t believe I ever wasted my time with you.”

That was a slap in the face. I knew he wouldn’t want the same things I did in bed, but all he had to say was that wasn’t what he was into.

Instead, he was looking at me like I was a piece of chewed gum on the sidewalk—used, worthless, gross. My anger—not an emotion I used often or knew how to hold on to—fled, leaving me feeling small and repulsive.

“Joel…” I stretched out a hand toward him.

“We’re done.” He strode away from me and started up the stairs. “I’m getting my stuff and I’m leaving, and I’m never coming back to this shitty house ever again. You pervert.”

“Joel—”

“No!” he yelled down the stairs. “We’re done. Don’t call me. Don’t text me. Don’t even look at me when I leave. You’re disgusting.”