CHAPTER 2

Before He Leaves

Brooke

I wake up to warm lips gliding down the length of my neck. I cannot believe I fell asleep while waiting for Landon to come home. I still feel groggy from the medication I took earlier and sit up slightly to wake up. London’s big hand slides up my bare leg until it meets the hem of my short shorts. He lifts his head, and his lips connect with mine. The kiss is soft and slow, making my head feel fuzzier than it already is.

I taste the bitter taste of whiskey on him, and a small piece of my heart shatters. Tears prickle my eyes, so I squeeze them shut. Not that Landon can even see me as there are no lights on. Self-loathing pools over me, and I hate him for doing this to me. Hate myself for letting him. For being so weak, believing in childish fantasies. Landon has never touched me without some form of liquid courage. Most of the time, it’s whiskey, sometimes bourbon.

Fat, ugly thing. I try to push that stupid voice out of my head, try to ignore it and enjoy the moment.

Landon removes my shorts and panties, but to my dismay leaves my silky shirt in its place. He spreads my thighs and settles himself between me. I feel his hard length pressed against me. Feel his bold fingers stroke me, prepare me. I gasp out in pleasure as he slides in. I can feel my heart hammering against my chest, and my breath comes out in pants as Landon sets an agonizingly slow rhythm.

“Beagchaithnini sneachta,” Landon’s low raspy whisper sends a bolt of pleasure from the tips of my breast all the way down to my toes. I bit my lip to hold in a moan as he picks up his pace. I am so close. Suddenly, hands come into play, and my breathing turns to gasps. I arch up into every stroke wishing for more. Harder, faster, I want to scream at him.

“Come,” Landon demands. “Come, Beagchaithnini sneachta,” and with a last gasp, I come biting the inside of my cheek in an effort to keep quiet as London’s grunts out his pleasure.

Landon rolls off me, his breathing labored as he casually lays there with one arm covering his eyes. In a few minutes, he will get up and go shower. Then he will go down to his study where I always imagine he drinks away the memory of me.

When he leaves, I go into the bathroom to remove my contacts. My eyes are itchy and irritated from sleeping with them in already. I will have to forgo them tomorrow and wear my glasses. I hate wearing my glasses. They’re too easily removed.

After I clean up a bit, I curl back into bed careful to stay on my side of the bed. I know he is not coming back again tonight, but I still leave space for him. It’s stupid wishful thinking on my part that he might come back and wrap his big six-foot-four-inch frame around me and whisper sweet nothings to me while his fingers thread through my hair. I burrow further into my pillow as tears slowly spill over my eyes. I curse myself for crying. How does he do it? How does he make me feel so good, yet so ashamed after? Pushing my face into my pillow to muffle my cry I fall asleep with a list of if only running through my mind.