Wretched Love

I took one last look at the clubhouse, feeling a pang of… something for leaving it behind. For leaving him behind.

But I forced myself to ignore that.

No good would come of that. Of me even entertaining the thought that I belonged in a place like that.

I didn’t belong anywhere.

So I pulled out of the lot. I didn’t let myself look in the rearview mirror.

I was standing in line at a very airy and trendy looking café. It was hip without being pretentious, cozy without being dated, and the smell of beans permeated the air. Coffee was essential after the night I had last night.

My head ached mildly from the beer, lack of sleep and probably some dehydration. I should’ve drank more water. Then there were the muscles. They were throbbing, like I’d had an intense workout.

Which I guessed I had.

My wrists still held faint red marks from the binds he’d used on me. My inner thigh burned with beautiful pain, where Swiss had sunk his teeth into the skin. Where he’d drawn my blood.

A blush crept up my neck from the very memory, and my legs quivered with need.

Despite the aches and the lack of sleep, I’d never felt more alive in my life. The world seemed brighter, sharper somehow. Like I’d had a film over my eyes for the past eighteen years—for my entire life, actually—and this was the first time I was seeing clearly.

However, a man could not be credited with this.

Though he played a huge part.

It was the decisions I’d made last night. The decisions I’d been making for the past three weeks. All of them my own. All of them outside of the person I’d been pretending to be all these years.

This, today, felt like the first day of my life.

“I’m warnin’ yah now, there’s gonna be like a quarter of an hour wait on the coffee,” an accented voice informed me.

I blinked at the man in front of me, his brows pinched together with stress and his eyes slightly wild.

“My barista just quit,” he informed me, speaking close to a shout over the screech of steaming milk. “And it took me years to train her because Yanks have no idea how to make good bloody coffee,” he continued. “I’m usually the main chef here too, but because I am the only one within a hundred-mile radius who can make proper coffee, it’s on me to do this.” He nodded down to the machine, still yelling even though he’d stopped steaming milk.

“And because of that, word gets around so bloody everyone comes from three towns over to get my coffee,” he grimaced, pouring milk expertly into a takeaway cup.

He fastened the lid on and yelled, “Flat white for Hannah!”

I winced at the sound and moved aside for a pretty young woman with a baby on her hip to take the coffee.

Indeed, the café was full, all of the tables occupied and many people standing around, obviously waiting for takeout. I’d been too deep in my head to notice all of this.

The man behind the counter looked very stressed, his hair was mussed, cheeks ruddy and red. He was short, in his mid to late forties, trim and muscular.

“I know how to use that,” I blurted, nodding to the machine.

His eyes widened at me in disbelief. “I highly fuckin’ doubt that,” he scoffed.

Being cussed at in his accent didn’t have the same effect as it might’ve if he was an American.

In fact, it was cute and endearing.

“I don’t mean to be rude, darlin’, but I’m just speaking from experience. Most of you Americans call dirty water coffee and consider a Keurig an ‘espresso machine.’” He scrunched his nose in distaste.

I grinned at him. “I consider Keurigs a crime,” I told him. “We have a very fancy espresso machine at home…” I trailed off.

Home.