I fuck her over and over and over, from the early-morning chill straight into the warmth of the early afternoon sunlight.
I fuck her until we’re both sore and exhausted and bruised.
I fuck her until neither of us know where she ends and I begin.
And then I fuck her again.
When it’s finally over, when the first vestiges of sanity slowly return to me, I collapse on top of Veronica. She tangles her legs with mine and curls her body into me.
It’s not enough. I reach up and fumble her free of the tie that bound her for so many hours. Only then, when we’re on our sides with her arms wrapped tightly around me, do I finally let go and sleep.
Chapter 26
Ian is beautiful when he sleeps. All the stress and strain and guilt he carries with him when he’s awake just seems to melt away and he’s left looking almost carefree. Mouth soft, face relaxed, body unguarded. It’s an even better look for him than smug asshole and I feel myself responding despite the fact that there isn’t a muscle in my body that doesn’t feel the strain of last night’s lovemaking.
There’s a part of me that wants to stay right here in bed with him all day, but just because it’s Sunday doesn’t mean I don’t have work to do. I’m not shooting today, but I’ve got a ton of details to go over for the Blue Willow contracts before they get sent out to the agents involved. Plus, there’s a pile of scripts in my office that my agent has been hounding me about. It seems crazy, considering I’ve got one film about to open, am in the middle of filming on a huge action blockbuster, and have a period piece lined up that begins shooting in five months. But timetables are skewed in this industry and unless I want a gap in my shooting schedule for 2018, I need to pick a project. And quickly.
But first I’m going to make breakfast for Ian and me. After everything that happened last night, I think we deserve to splurge on blueberry pancakes of the non-whole-wheat variety. Even if it is—I glance at the clock—two in the afternoon.
I start to climb out of bed—no time like the present to get started—but I’m distracted by the bulge of his biceps and sleek line of his deltoids. Because I can’t resist his body any more than I can resist the way he looks at me when he’s half mad with lust, I lean over and press kisses to his arm and shoulder and back. He stirs, but he doesn’t wake. Not that I’m exactly surprised. It takes a lot of energy to put me through my paces the way he did last night.
One more kiss—this time on the vulnerable stretch of his jugular—and then I’m rolling out of bed with from-scratch blueberry pancakes on my mind. At least until I pad into the bathroom for my robe and catch sight of my naked body in the mirror for the first time.
Yesterday, I’d been too humiliated to look at the marks he’d left on me, too devastated by the way he’d shown me the door so abruptly. I’d gotten dressed without once looking in the mirror, and then, when it came time to cover up the bruises the dress didn’t hide, I’d made a point of looking at only one at a time. So much easier to pretend they didn’t exist that way.
There’s no pretending these bruises away, though. And no way to hide them short of full studio makeup. Surprisingly, that’s okay with me. More than okay, really. I’m not sure what it says about me that the idea of people seeing me like this—all marked up and obviously well used—doesn’t embarrass me nearly as much as it thrills me. At least not when Ian is the one leaving the marks. And not when it shows just how much he wants me. Reluctantly, I reach for one of the robes I have hanging off a hook on my bathroom door. But as I do, the bruises ripple in the early afternoon sun and I find myself turning back to the mirror just to catch another glimpse—of the bruises and the woman wearing them so proudly.
From the time I was a young girl, I’ve had a love/hate relationship with my body. Part of that, of course, was growing up in Hollywood, my body constantly under surveillance by the press, the public, my mother. Anyone and everyone thought they had a right to comment on my health or my looks every time I gained or lost a couple pounds. It only got worse after everything that happened between eight and ten, the love portion of the love/hate relationship fading slowly to disgust.
From that point on—from the moment a man first put his hands on me against my will, from the moment the press started writing about me as if I was their personal property—my body ceased to be my own. It became this impersonal thing, this weapon I wielded, this image I projected, this role that I played. And every day that passed I grew more disconnected from it, more afraid of it, until I ceased to relate to it at all. I couldn’t cry, I couldn’t have an orgasm. Hell, most days I could barely breathe.