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I feel used and hurt. I can't stop the tears falling from my eyes.
Even thinking of the words he said makes me cringe. I'd expected him to say something along those lines, something I'm sure so many other women have heard, but I wasn't expecting it to happen so quickly after us having sex. I didn't expect him to be that cold so quickly.
I take slow sips of my wine and stare out of the windows. I sit here often now, staring across the park at his building, but I can't see it very clearly as rain begins to strike the glass. It's a comforting sound and it goes right along with the tears that continue to fall.
Every thought of him, of our night together, makes me ache in that way only he's made me ache. Each kiss, touch, movement we shared... it's all too much. I feel as if I have a fever, I lose my breath, and run a hand through my hair.
The buzzer goes and I frown as I make my way over to it. It's almost midnight and Orlando wasn't due back for a while.
"Yes?"
"A Harry Styles is here for you, Ms. Abbott."
"Oh." I gasp quietly, "Send him up."
I look like hell, I can feel how swollen my face is, and I'm dressed as casually as I have ever been in his presence. I shouldn't care after what he said. But I do. I glance down at the shirt I wear, one of Orlando's dress shirts that he left hanging on our closet door, and lift it up. I'm wearing the same panties I wore at Harry's apartment.
When he knocks I hesitate and then open it. I turn away so he can't see me and walk away from him. I hear the door close, and the sound of his footsteps behind me.
I go back to where I was sitting before, pull my knees to my chest, and stare out at the rain again. His footsteps stop beside of me and I close my eyes when he places his hand on my shoulder. The gentle squeeze he gives sends a shock wave through me that stops between my legs.
"Look at me, Elowyn."
His voice is so quiet. It's such a sweet sound that I've come to adore. I don't think I've ever liked the sound of anyone's voice quite as much. Not even my own husbands. But he isn't British, he has the smallest twang, and is incredibly soft spoken. I still can't bring myself to look at him.
Although, I don't have to. He does it for me, grabbing me by the chin, and turning my head so that I can't look anywhere else but at him. As he lowers himself onto the floor, I force myself not to cry again. It was hard enough not to sob in front of him in his bedroom. He wipes my tears away with his thumbs, slowly, and I try not to think of how good his hands felt on me earlier.
