Forever Us (Always and Forever 4)

I’m hot watching him watch me grind on him like a horny slut. But I’m desperate to give him one orgasm, give him control over me after months of imprisoning myself from him.

“Look at me. I’m so desperate for your forgiveness, baby,” I whimper again, then follow it with a breathy squeal when he thrusts his hips abruptly one time. The head of his cock hits my swollen clit and I detonate, practically falling out of his lap as I orgasm at the table.

“Fuck, Kingston! Fuck!” I scream out, the noise of me reaching euphoria echoing throughout our large two-story home. By the time it bounces off the walls and gets back to me, I can hear it as if it is someone else.

He stays silent for the first time as a lover, not vocalizing with me like he usually does, and it throws me off a bit as he watches me come down from my high. I watch his eyes as they stay on me, until my breathing evens out and I become limp—vulnerable. I bared myself to him, and he has done nothing more than look at me. I begged for him not to leave, and then I came on his material-clad cock without him even talking to me.

“Up.” He finally breaks the silence with something far from what I wanted to hear, further disappointing me. I stumble to stand on shaky legs, both my arousal and sadness keeping me unsteady. Righting my nightie, I go to turn awkwardly, unsure what to do, confused at what the hell is happening.

“I’m dropping Prince off with my sister then going to therapy. If you want to come, be there. If not, then I guess we don’t have anything else to say.” His words burn me like hot metal, making me feel like utter shit. I feel meek like a mouse, backed into the corner by the cat. I nod, and he moves around me without touching me, giving me the cold shoulder. One second, we were kissing, but as fast as he forfeited, he turned straight to cold.

As he leaves me a mess of all kinds of emotion in the middle of our kitchen, I shiver, the tears coming back. I have never felt so rejected, and what’s worse, I know this isn’t the first time I actually deserve this treatment.

I had to force myself to leave her post-orgasm in that kitchen. After the way she drew me in with her words as her weapon of choice, I couldn’t help but leave her like that. I’m mad, tired, then mad again. I have been dragged along with Lana’s false promises repeatedly over the years, and I guess a man gets to a point, and I’ve reached it. When she says she will change or move on and let me in, she does, but it’s short-lived, often ending before we can even settle into the normalcy of it.

Walking away with her juices still coating my sweats, her breath still lingering in my senses, and her eyes still heavy with lustful vulnerability was hard to fucking do. But, for once in our relationship, I had to leave, because I can’t continue to be collateral damage, and I need to see she is actually serious about fixing herself.

I undress and shower, doing my best to calm my racing heart and hush my thoughts. After twenty minutes, I get out and towel myself off, thinking about all the shit I have to tell the therapist today. Entering the room, Lana is sitting on the bed, texting, her head low. I don’t say anything at first, not sure how or what to say after the debacle in the fucking kitchen.

“Am I good to shower?” Her soft voice cracks in the air as I enter our large walk-in closet.

“Yeah.”

“Thanks.” I watch her set her phone down in my peripherals and pay close attention as her small frame moves across the room and disappears into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her. As the door closes, I let out an audible breath, one I didn’t know I was even holding. The tension is thick, and as much as I love Lana and want nothing more than to take her in the shower and say sorry with our bodies, telling her I trust her, I don’t know if I do yet. For once, I need to stand my ground and be strong in ways that test my restraint.

The next hour is silent. We move around each other as we finally get Prince up from his food nap and get him to my sister. Hopefully, therapy won’t be as hard, but hey—she got in the car. That’s a start, right?

“Lana, I have heard so much about you. It’s nice to finally put a face to the name.” Dr. Moore smiles at her, the glasses on the bridge of her nose lifting just a bit with the movement.

I look over at Lana, with oceans between us as she sits beside me, realizing she hasn’t said a word since after her shower. She stayed mute in the car, up until we dropped off our monkey. She snuggled him, her body shaking as she prepared to let him go, her eyes wide and worried as she watched my sister walk in the house. She cried the entire car ride, and like the dick I am, I let her. I didn’t attempt to comfort her, knowing damn well it would weaken me.

Now, her head is lowered and her hair is shading her face, shielding her sad eyes from me. Her body language is guarded and I understand

that it’s because she doesn’t want to be here.

“I’m a mess. I bet you think I’m insane.” Her words strike me.

“Never. We all need a little help, don’t you think?” Dr. Moore asks, watching her closely, attempting to make her feel comfortable.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” Lana digs her joined straight hands between her knees, her elbows digging into her stomach as she bites at her lip.

“You’re anxious. How are you feeling about being here, Lana?” she asks, and I have to tear my eyes away from my girl. It’s breaking me to not give in and be the savior, but this is it; she has to be the one to change and make the effort.

“I just... I feel... I mean...” She stutters, bringing one hand up to sweep the falling hair out of her face, tucking it behind her tiny ear, and giving me a view of her profile. Returning her hand between her legs, she lifts her eyes again, her head staying lowered. “I never wanted to give my problems this much control over me,” She admits.

I focus my eyes on the falling rain pelting the window. My thumb is caught between my teeth as I bite the tip, trying to stay silent as my leg bobs up and down nervously.

“Problems? What problems are you referring to?”

“Um, well, Kingston said you think I have PTSD and postpartum. I mean, it makes sense,” She whispers.

“Well, some of the symptoms he described sound to be those two things, but we don’t know for sure until we evaluate the circumstances a bit more. Why don’t we start with the postpartum? What do you feel when you aren’t with Princeton?”

“I feel sick—afraid,” She confesses.

I make the mistake of looking over at Lana and see her peering over to me, her eyes rimmed in red and the water collecting along her lower lash line, waiting to fall. I squeeze the fist on my thigh, restraining myself from reaching to her.

“Afraid of what?”