The Hateful Heavy Heart | 18+

12 - When It Burns

I slept on it, for many days and many nights. I liked to boast about how strong I was, but I was a coward. That was one thing that made it funny when Cleo told me I needed to talk to someone about how I was feeling. However, for me, there was no point in paying someone to listen to my feelings and my troubles when I already knew what was wrong with me. I was a coward. It stemmed from my past. Of course, I was mean in school too. I have always been mean. But the unfortunate events in my life made me meaner.

It could have been worse, I guessed. Along with being taken advantage of, I could have gotten pregnant. I could have died. Neither of those happened, but that still didn't stop me from being upset and being extra careful. That was the easiest way for me to describe it, that I was just being extra, extra careful.

I had yet to share my feelings with Ruggiero and he didn't ask me any more questions, but that didn't stop him from being his usual, sickeningly sweet self. It was infuriating. Everything in me was telling me to push him out, that he was getting too close, but I still hadn't.

Over the past three weeks, we had been spending an obnoxious amount of time together. His sleepovers became a norm. There was a benefit to that, though; we could have sex night or day. Or both. We also went on lots of dates. There was the cliché walk in the park, along with a couple of lunch dates, we went to the movies a couple of times—in which all of the movies were pretty bad, but Ruggiero always knew how to make it a good time—and even a dinner date. The dinner date wasn't like the one we had at Quintavi's. It was much more expensive and much more intimate; he kept his eyes on me the entire time, practically undressing me at the table instead of focusing on his entree.

As much as I wanted him, I couldn't help but feel like he had an ulterior motive. Never in my life had I met someone so genuinely nice. Everyone had faults, right? Ruggiero didn't seem to have any. Of course, sometimes he left the toilet seat up, and now and then, he forgot things. But none of those were detrimental. It all felt too good to be true.

Ruggiero was too good to be true.

At that moment, we were in my bed, both of us naked, both of us sweating. Naturally, we were having sex. I loved sex, and I always would love sex. The incident didn't change that, it simply changed how I liked it and how I handled it. When I failed at expressing my emotions, sex was something that I could always fall back on.

Ruggiero, however, was making it hard for me. The sexual chemistry between us had gotten so good, he didn't even have to ask me anything anymore. He just knew how I liked it. He knew where to place his hands. He knew how to angle his dick in a way that would have me writhing beneath him. Those were all honorable things; I could appreciate a man who knew how to pleasure me.

It wasn't what he did that was making me uneasy. It was what he said. He was too nice, even during sex. He had began to compliment me, not on my breasts or my ass or how well I rode him. No, these compliments were nice. Too nice. Too Ruggiero. A few examples of these would be: "You're a goddess" and "How did I get so lucky?" I knew why he took sex as an opportunity to say these things. I guessed he thought that during sex, I didn't pay attention enough. But I paid attention to everything. I had to.

He had me on my back, legs spread, one held down by his strong grip and the other resting on his shoulder. I liked the position. I liked the thought of me open, inviting him to drive himself into me. But there was something different about the way he was fucking me. These strokes were slow and delicate and purposeful, not to mention deep. He always fucked me so good; this time was only slightly different.

Ruggiero's hand trailed from my waist to my breast where he squeezed tightly and I moaned in response to all of the sensations. "Ti amo, bellissima."