𝐆𝐞𝐭𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐲 |𝟏𝟖+

40 || Peace Offering

The Weeknd - In The Night

𝔚𝔚𝔚
Celina

There were rules I followed when it came to men.

I didn't help them.

I never sought them out- unless it was to further a scheme.

I led them on.

I rarely fucked them, and when I did, I never stuck around long enough to sleep with them.  

Until him.

All it took for me to toss all my beliefs aside was a six foot five, dark haired, white man, with blue eyes, a faint scar and a personality that put the American Psycho to shame.

It's beyond annoying. Quite sickening really.

And the cherry on top? There was a throb between my legs, an ache ever so lasting, I could only attest to having been fucked by him.

I didn't fuck him. He fucked me.

Thoroughly. Deeply.

And it was memorable to the point where if he maybe, possibly, eventually felt the need to do it again, I'd be maybe, possibly, eventually be willing to oblige.

The horrific thought drags me out of my fantasies and into realty.

A reality in which i'm pushed right up against a firm t-shirt clad chest, seeking out its warmth.

I wake, disoriented, exhausted and confused only to realize his arm is not only thrown over me but his hand is fisting a chunk of my shirt at my back, while mine sits at his abdomen, clutching the material of his shirt in my own fist.

Another confused moment has me realizing that my head's ventured far away from where it originally sat on my side of the pillow and now rests in the crook of his neck as we face one another on a bed made to fit an ant.

My nose brushes soft skin and his scent is all I can seem to breathe in.

Ugh.

After a long moment, I work up the energy to pull my head out from the crook of his neck, but I don't go far. Not when the bed is too small and his body is so large, it takes up the majority of the limited space we're lying on.

I should get up, move away from him. But it's far too early for me to get out of bed, and so, I have no choice but to lay there, with my hand at his abdomen and his evened breathing at my temple.

I try to fall asleep, but it's nearly impossible when he's so close, and so... quiet. Instead, I find myself using this moment as an opportunity to unabashedly observe him as he sleeps. It's too odd of a sight. A man far too paranoid to trust even the men who'd sworn their loyalty to him, with his guard lowered before the person he swore he hated most.

I wonder if he realizes it, or perhaps he denies it. But the man trusts me enough to fall asleep with me.

It doesn't make me me feel soft or special.