Chasing Us (Dark Love 2)

I spend every moment I can in the office, desperate for a distraction. If I wasn’t there, I was at Adriana’s house, trying to bring her back to life. I spend the mornings with Amelia, the guilt eating away at me of not being home sharing the responsibility of our daughter, but distance makes the pain hurt less. Charlotte tries to bring it up a few times, but I simply walk away from the conversation. She knows not to touch me, and therefore, our conversations become limited to Amelia and the talk of the weather.

After a while, Adriana slowly starts to come around, but all around her the memories are a painful reminder of what she’s lost. While we see improvement, the breakdowns quickly accompany it. It’s almost like she refuses to move on with her life. My mother is at her wit’s end, afraid of her daughter doing something drastic, and my father finally suggests she get some professional help. I know Charlotte visits Adriana almost daily, and those are the times I rush home to get changed and make sure I’m gone before she returns.

The sounds of the traffic echo in the background as I sit in my office alone. It’s well into the night, what time, I have no idea. The dim light of the lamp is the only thing illuminating the room. My bourbon sits on my desk, enticing me with its ability to erase the nightmare I’m living.

Last night got the better of me, and for that reason alone, I know I can’t see her tonight. When I see Charlotte dressed in those skinny, ass-cupping jeans and that slinky top—that top—my weakness engulfs me and my inability to fight off the side of me that wants her, the side so desperately needing to be buried in her, means I have to make her loathe me.

I’m surprised to find Amelia isn’t home as I want nothing more than to be smothered by her. In turn, my anger redirects to Charlotte. I know she wants to talk, our marriage right now is a complete train wreck. I know full well it’s my fault, but I do what I have to do to protect myself.

The words I say have the intent of hurting her because I feel myself caving. She’s beyond furious, and when she leaves the kitchen, I thought she would lock herself in our room. I had no inkling whatsoever she would come out dressed in that top, her tits on full show. Has it been that long since I have touched them? My body is betraying me, my cock throbbing at the sight of her, and yet, I allow the jealousy and rage to fight off any desire I feel. She’s justifiably livid at my venomous outburst, and in typical Charlotte fashion, she doesn’t back down. She goes at me and matches me toe to toe, and fuck me, if that isn’t the hottest thing ever.

She searches frantically for the keys, and the second I spot them behind me, I know it’s inevitable what will happen next. I could easily push them away, but the masochistic side of me waits for her to come near me. The overpowering scent of her skin lingers in the air, enough for me to inhale it, and all my senses in that moment weaken.

She lingers, and I know I can have her right there, all of her, but those tortured voices in my head tell me to back off. If I give in now, the pain will be much worse later.

I don’t want to feel pain.

I don’t want to lose her.

I don’t want to love her.

Words hurt, sometimes more than sticks and stones.

And tonight, I speak those words.

After she slams the door in my face, the jealous side of me knows I have no choice but to go to the bar. She will get drunk, and she’s angry at me, and I’m talking steam-coming-out-of-her-ears angry. Any guy with a fucking dick will want in her pussy, and that side of me still needs to control her.

I find myself a stool at the far end of the bar, camouflaged by others who surround me, and thankfully, my height gives me the advantage I need. My eyes fixate on her there on the dance floor, and just as I suspected, all dicks are trying to get their filthy hands on what’s mine. The fury forces me to pull out my phone and text her. I can see her respond, and unlike the Charlotte who is my wife, she laughs it off, only to rub herself up against some bleached-blond fucker who places his hands on her ass.

Acting on impulse, I move toward the dance floor until I feel a hand press up against my chest.

It’s Eric.

“Move the fuck away, Eric,” I grit.

“Lex, let her be.” His voice is calm.

“Let her be? She’s going to be dragged to the back alley and get fucked by that fucker. She’s my fucking wife!”

“Give her some credit, you aren’t such a saint yourself,” he shoots back.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that Charlie wouldn’t be all up on that guy’s dick if she didn’t think you are screwing Montana Black.”

“Montana? Sh… She’s my assistant,” I stammer.

What the fuck is this about?

“Yeah, well, that hasn’t stopped Montana before. Look, I promise you Charlie will come home, vows intact. Just let her have this night.”

“No, Eric… Look!” I point to her, the guy burying his head into her neck. I push Eric aside, but he’s quick to grab my forearm, forcing me to stop for a second.

“Okay, I’ll break it up, but for the record, you’re a jerk. You are hurting my best friend. If you must take her home, then wait until I get another shot in her, and she passes out.” Eric walks onto the dance floor as Charlotte is walking back to the

bar. He whispers in her ear only her for to laugh it off. The fucker, annoyed with the interruption, tries to pull her away from Eric, but she resists. Thank fucking God.

I stay at the bar watching her like a hunter. As promised, another few shots down, and she can barely walk. Eric motions for me to come over and just in time as she stumbles into my arms. The weight of her body is as light as a feather, the contact unbearable as again I struggle to fight off any urges which stir.