Stained

Chapter 103

I hook my fingers through his jeans belt loop. "You're not taking advantage. I want this. Please," I sound as pathetic as I feel. But he can make me forget. I need him to make me forget.

His eyes flit between my fingers on his jeans and my eyes. When my fingers move to his zipper on their own accord, he grabs my hand. "You want me to fu- you want to have sex?" His voice is disbelieving.

I'm too lost in my despair to blush at his crudeness. I nod my head yes eagerly. Make me forget, my eyes beg. Please.

Hannah told me her first time was so painful that it brought her to tears. I'll take any pain I can get right now because Damien obviously won't let me self harm.

"You're a virgin?" He half asks.

This time I do blush, but I nod my head yes. Males have always scared me. Still do. Only Damien doesn't... why?

"Don't you want your first time to be special?" He looks away. "With someone you love?" I wonder if he loved the girl he lost his virginity to.

Ignoring the twinge of jealousy the thought brings on, I cup his cheeks, forcing his gaze back to mine. "I want you."

The intensity in his gaze makes me want to ask him if he said what I think he said last night. But I don't. The coward that I am. I don't. Because there's a big chance he didn't. I mean. Even if he did, after my break down... what am I saying, no one can love me. My semen donor doesn't, my mother's husband doesn't, it's a surprise my mother does and sometimes I doubt it.

My tears rise again. Unloved, burden and alone. Always have been, always will be.

I reach for his zipper, again but he grabs my hands, again. I choke on a sob. Make me forget, please!

'Your dad would've treated you like a servant if no one found you.'

Stop! I scream at the voices inside my head.

I look down at Damien's crotch. If I touch him he'll get a boner. All guys do. All guys care about is sex. It's what Damien wanted to do that first day in his car. He wanted to fuck me.

Damien cups my cheeks. "Stop."

I immediately comply. My bottom lip trembles. "Please, I need you."

"You'll regret this," he says.

I shake my head. "I won't." A part of me knows he's right but the bigger part, the part that craves pain and the loss of all sense, overpowers it.

"You'll call it a mistake." The hurt in his eyes is unmistakable.

Guilt tares through my need to forget. I cover his hand on my cheek with my cast one. "It's never been a mistake." It's the truth. I hoped I could convince myself it was but it's impossible. I'm in too deep to lie to myself and believe it.

"You're lying. You're only saying this because you want me to touch you," his voice is drenched in anguish.

I keep my eyes pinned on his, despite how unbearable it is to stare into those pain-stricken eyes. "I was lying before. I'm not now." I need him to know I'm not lying. I need him to know more than I need him to make me forget. I don't know why.

He searches my eyes for a moment and I let him, knowing he needs to. "If I fuck you, I'll hate myself."

My heart drops along with my hand from his on my cheek. "What?" I somehow manage to say past the giant lump in my throat.

He's quick to defend himself. "No, fuck. You're getting it wrong."

A tear falls onto his hand and he stares at it like it's a meteoroid about to hit him.

'If I fuck you, I'll hate myself.'  His words repeatedly echo in my head, overpowering even the voices.

I move to pull his hands off me and put some distance between us but he presses his forehead against mine. The soft gesture won't let me pull away and I close my eyes as tears stream down my cheeks.

'If I fuck you, I'll hate myself.'

"Look at me," he whispers. I don't.

"Rose, look at me," he repeats.

I squeeze my eyes shut. No. Just go. Please go. But I don't want him to leave. No! Don't go! I need you. I want you. Always have, always will.

"Please," he croaks out, kissing my eyelid before pressing his forehead against mine once more.

Please. He almost never says please. And because of that, I slowly open my eyes.

"You're upset, and you're scared, and you had a PTSD attack not even ten minutes ago. If I touch you when you're like this, it will be me taking advantage of you in your vulnerable state. I can't do that. I won't do that. If I do, I will hate myself more than I already do. You will too when you come to your senses tomorrow..." he trails off, closing his eyes.

Did he imply I already hate him and will hate him even more if he touched me? I guess he is half right; if he does, I would hate him when I come to my senses tomorrow. But I don't already.

"I don't hate you. I have never hated you. I can't hate you, that's the problem. I want to, but I can't. What I feel for you, hate couldn't even touch it if it tried," the words sputter out of me before I can stop myself. All true.

His eyes snap open, hopeful and unrelenting. "What you feel for me?"