Propositioning Love

“What we had, what we have is real.”

I start to shake my head in denial and he growls. “Did you sleep with me for the money?”

“No, of course not,” I gasp.

“Then you’re not a whore, baby.”

A fresh burst of tears wants to rack through my body and I can’t stop from shaking.

“You’re not,” he declares. “And I never want to hear you say that again. I’m just a fucking idiot. All the signs were there, I… I don’t know, but I fucking ignored them. The only explanation I have is that I wanted you so badly, needed you so badly, I was grateful that my money could make that happen.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, once I saw you standing there on that dark corner, I knew you were mine. And I was willing to do anything and everything to get you in my life. Even if I had to pay you.”

“I didn’t take any money from you,” I feel the need to remind him. To remind myself.

“No, you didn’t.” He smiles. “That should have tipped me off, but I was too…”

“Too what?” I ask when he doesn’t finish and hold my breath.

I know I’m not doing myself any favors here, but I need to hear the rest of that sentence.

“Too desperate.”

“Desperate?”

“Yes, desperate. Almost as desperate as I feel right now.”

My heart thunders in my ears so loud I almost can’t hear myself as I ask, “Why are you desperate right now?”

“Because I can’t lose you, I need you, forever. One weekend wasn’t enough. Thirty days will never be enough.”

God, I want to believe him, but how could I ever be with a man who could pick up a woman and pay her for sex?

“I could never be with a man who uses prostitutes,” I end up saying, my resolve thickening.

Bry jerks back a little and then he stiffens. “Zoe, do I look like the kind of man who needs to pay women to sleep with me?”

Is that a trick question?

Devoting most of my brain to keeping my tears under control, I pretend to give him a slow once over.

“I don’t know. Are you?” I ask, lifting my gaze back to his face.

My little show is probably all for nothing because my eyes are still drowning in tears.

He smiles a sharp smile as if he’s amused by my question. “No.”

I scoff. How can he say that?

His smile twists into a frown. “I’m serious. Before that night, I never even considered such a thing.”

Still not quite believing him, I decide to play along and ask, “So what made you change your mind?”

“You,” he says as if it explains everything.

I scan his face, searching for any hint of a lie, but all I see is the truth staring back at me.

It’s not the answer I was expecting. I was expecting more of a defense of his character. Not this admission that I could possibly be the reason he changed his mind.

“Me?”

“Yes, you Zoe,” he says, his voice growing deeper and huskier as he continues to stare into my eyes. “The moment you pulled open my door, I didn’t care who or what you were. I just knew I needed you in my car, in my bed, in my life.”

I don’t know if it’s because my emotions are raw and exposed like a throbbing nerve, but his words hit me hard. I want to believe them so damn badly.

“You’re mine, Zoe,” he says, his eyes darkening. “You’re the best thing to ever happen to me and I love you.”

Thumbs wiping my tears away, his grip tightens as he repeats, “I love you, Zoe, and I’m not letting you get away.”

He kisses me, and I don’t try to fight it. Knowing that what we had is real, knowing that he loves me, he fucking loves me, absolutely floors me.

As his lips move over mine, the hurt that was so strong just a second ago begins to melt away, replaced by this buzzing warmth that fills my whole body.

“I love you, I fucking love you,” he repeats over and over again as if he’s trying to push the words into me as he continues to kiss me.

And every declaration of love, every press of his lips, soothes some of the hurt away.

Eventually the shock of his revelation begins to wear off and I begin to kiss him back.

But as soon as I say the words, “I love you,” he freezes.

His entire body stiffens against me.

Leaning back, there’s this vicious, hungry look on his face as he demands me to, “Say it again.”

Licking my lips nervously, I taste him as I repeat, “I love you. I love you, Bryce Ericsson.”

Face contorting into an expression that’s both pleasure and pain, he kisses me again, crushing his body against my body.

And god, do I love him. It’s crazy, but I think I have since that first night he made me repeat his name. I ran away the next morning because deep down I knew it wasn’t just a one-night fling.