Submit to Me

26 - Aaron *

"Say something," Sloane begged, a look of fear on her face.

I was still unbelievably stunned by what she had admitted to our group, and I dragged my fingers through my hair—still trying to figure out what to say to her admission.

I'm flattered. Really... I am. But what she added to her admission also freaked me out a bit. "I will. I'm still trying to process what you told the group."

I'm not innocent. I know this. One of the things Sloane admitted to, I did as well—with every woman I fucked. But fuck. Imagining her husband was me every time she looked at him, had sex with him, and looked at her kids' as if I was the father of them?

What the fuck?

I shouldn't feel mad about what she admitted. But somehow, I am. I shouldn't feel freaked out about it, either. But I am. It makes me feel like there's more going on with her than she's letting on.

This isn't my field of expertise, so I don't know if this is normal behavior or a huge concern I should be worried about. But I am concerned. So, for my sister not to warn me about her thoughts? It has me thinking, what the fuck, Shayla?

I'm confused about how to feel about what she said. And I need clarification so I know how I'm supposed to think moving forward with what I know now.

"Aaron," she whispered.

"Not right now, Sloane. I'm thinking."

With this new thing she brought up, I think I know why and understand more about what her husband could've been thinking and why they fought as much as they did. It probably was killing him knowing she looked at him as me and that their kids were mine—not his.

I wondered about this before if that was the case between the two, but now it makes me believe that's why he had sex with her how he did. He didn't want to make her feel good if it was me she was thinking about, believing it was me who was giving her orgasms. Not him.

He most likely figured, what's the point?

Now that it was out in the open, I had to know the truth. I can't just sit and continue thinking about the what-ifs. So I didn't give myself a headache by racking my brain with all this thinking and wondering, I asked, "Did he know?"

"About what?"

"You're thoughts."

"He knew about you. But he never knew what I thought or believed I saw whenever I looked at him. I don't know for sure, but I'm sure he felt it."

That answers some of my questions, I guess.

"What did you two fight about then?" I asked, glancing at her quickly, then returning my eyes to the road before another repeat of what happened to her a couple of years ago happened again.

"You. It was always about you. He said I needed to get over you. That what was done was done. I needed to get over it; I was his wife, and I needed to let things go. The past was the past, and I needed to focus on the future. And so on."

I frustratedly scrubbed my face. Then, my stomach suddenly sickened about what I wanted to ask Sloane next—worried to hear her answer. But I have to ask. "Did he ever hit you?"

She shook her head, but there was a bit of hesitation in that shake at first.

"Sloane. Tell me the truth. Did. He. Ever. Hit you?"

She cried.

And my heart ripped in two when I heard those fucking tears leaving her eyes.

Fuck.