You always wondered how he was so good in bed.
You knew he got around—his reputation wasn't exactly a secret.
But damn.
Every night with him felt different. Intense. Addictive. Dangerous.
Now, you were lying in his bed, wrapped in tangled sheets, your naked body pressed against his. Your fingers lazily traced the ink that decorated his chest, the silence between you both filled only by the sound of your breathing.
"I have a question," you said softly, not looking at him. "You don't have to answer if you don't want to."
That was a lie. You wanted the answer. Needed it.
But you also knew how these conversations usually went—he hated questions like this. Said they always led to pointless arguments.
"What?" he groaned, already sounding annoyed.
"How many women have you slept with before me?"
You asked it quietly, almost hoping he'd lie.
Because you didn't want to hear the truth. Not really.
"Plenty," he said flatly, without a hint of hesitation.
"Oh. Okay," you muttered, voice small. You didn't know what you expected, but it still stung.
He groaned again, more irritated now. His eyes dropped down to you, and for a second, you saw it—the guilt. He could tell your heart was cracking right there in front of him.
"Don't ask a question if you don't want the truth, sweetheart."
You paused, hand still against his chest. "Do you do the things you do to me... to them too?"
This time, your fingers stopped moving. You waited.
He let out a short laugh. "I don't eat every bitch's pussy, if that helps you sleep at night."
That was it. You lifted yourself off his chest, tears threatening to spill. He thought this was funny.
You thought you were different. That what you had—what you shared—meant something more to him than just sex.
You got out of bed and started searching for something to wear. He noticed how quiet you'd gotten and sat up slightly, watching you.
Just before you stepped into the bathroom, you turned to look at him. Your eyes were glassy with tears.
He turned his head away.
He hated it when you cried.
"I'm sorry for crying," you whispered, "I just thought I was special to you."
You shut the bathroom door behind you, the words hanging heavy in the air.
As the water poured over you in the shower, you heard the sound of chaos erupting outside.
Glass shattering.
Furniture moving.
His voice—loud, angry, unraveling.
He didn't know how to deal with emotion. He didn't like being made to feel something. And you? You made him feel too much.
You stepped out of the shower slowly, drying off as you prepared yourself.
Mentally. Physically.
Because you knew him.
He wasn't going to let this go. He always needed the last word.
"So you thought you could say that shit and just walk away?" he said, standing there, eyes wild and unfocused.
You froze. Your heart pounded in your chest. He scared you when he got like this.
"What did I say wrong?" you asked, trying to steady your voice.
"What did you say wrong?" he repeated mockingly. "You know what you fucking said."
"Yeah," you said, backing up slightly. "I said I thought I was special to you. What's wrong with that?"
He tilted his head, eyes dark. "I don't know, baby, you tell me."
He started walking toward you, slow and deliberate.
"J, you literally fuck every girl the same way you fuck me," you said, tears welling again.
He let out a wicked laugh. "Yeah? And how the fuck would you know that? You watching who I'm sticking my dick in?"
"J, what's wrong with you?" your voice cracked. "This is why I hate you!"
He gasped in mock offense. "Oh no," he sneered. "My little baby hates me?"
"Fuck you!" you cried, hitting his chest with clenched fists. Over and over.
You didn't want to hurt him.
You just wanted him to feel it.
To understand.
"You're the reason I feel like this! And I hate you for it!"
He grabbed you and shoved you against the wall, one hand pinning your wrists above your head.
"You hate me because I fuck you like I fuck everyone else?" he growled. "Grow the fuck up."
His face was inches from yours, eyes wild with something between lust and fury.
"You are special to me," he said, his voice rough. "That's why you're in my house. In my bed. Always in my head. So stop the fucking dramatics."
He let go of your wrists, and you slid to the floor, drained. Emotionally. Physically. He'd taken everything from you in that moment.
He pulled on his jacket, then crouched in front of you as you cried softly.
"Clean this fucking shit up," he said, voice low.
Then, softer—almost broken—he added, "I would fucking die for you."
He kissed your forehead roughly.
And then he walked out the door, leaving you there.
Shattered.
Alone.
And still wanting him.
