The chill of the air-conditioning raises goosebumps on my skin and for the first time since I walked out of the kitchen it registers that I’m still naked. I walk to the closet with trembling legs, pull out the purple silk robe I keep here to wear when I’m getting ready for a party or some other public event that requires the use of this house. I shrug the robe on, tightly knot the sash. Then sink onto the perfectly made bed with the abstract, Picasso-esque duvet and try to figure out what the hell I’m supposed to do now.
It might be easier if I couldn’t still smell him on my skin, if I couldn’t still feel him in the tenderness between my thighs and the heat radiating from my well-spanked ass.
I still can’t believe he did that—still can’t believe I let him do that. I’ve spent my whole adult life determined to maintain control—over my career, over my relationships, over my body. I’ve worked so hard to make sure no man could ever wrest that control from me.
And now I just threw it all away. I turned control over to him like it was nothing, let him do whatever he wanted to me. And enjoyed every second of it.
I raise one trembling hand to my mouth. My lips are swollen, tender, and I probe at them gently, shocked at how sensitive they still are. I lick my tongue over them, suck my lower lip between my teeth and bite down gently in an effort to replace the feel of him. The taste of him.
But he still lingers—on my lips and now my tongue. Lemon and mint and rich, dark chocolate.
He tastes good, better than any man has a right to, and I rub my lips together in an effort to vanquish his taste. To obliterate it. But, like the bergamot and citrus smell of him, it clings to me. Refuses to be ignored.
Just like him.
The thought terrifies me—I’ve never met a man I couldn’t put in his place and then ignore—and the idea that he’s the first, that he’s somehow found his way inside of me despite my many many precautions…
I cut off the thought as soon as it enters my head, then stand up in a rush and head into the bathroom, where I turn the shower on. I shed my robe and step into the large, luxurious stall before the water has even warmed up, so determined to rinse Ian off of me that I barely even notice the cold.
I stand under the spray for long minutes, washing off the day. Washing off the makeup. Washing off the sex. Washing off the role I played nearly a year ago and the role I’ll probably play for the rest of my life.
I stand there trying to get clean so long that the water turns hot and then, eventually, cold again. So long that my skin prunes up. So long that I can almost forget what he smelled like, what he tasted like, what he felt like moving inside of me.
At least until I look down and see the bruises on my breasts, the love bites sucked into my skin by his demanding—domineering—mouth.
It’s the final straw in a day full of last straws and I shatter, the glue holding all the pieces of me together melting under the onslaught of the relentless spray of water, getting washed down the drain on the reckless trail of tears I don’t have the energy or the will to stop.
What am I going to do?
What am I going to do?
WHAT AM I GOING TO DO?
Though I’m alone, I shove my fist against my mouth in an effort to stifle the sobs I can’t hold back. And then I cry. I cry and cry and cry…for everything that I can’t change and everything that I won’t.
I give myself five minutes. Five minutes to sob. Five minutes to lose my shit completely. And then it’s done.
I rinse the tears from my face once and for all, then grab the shampoo and quickly lather up my hair. The water is freezing—that’s how long I’ve been in the shower—and now that I’m back in control, the ecological guilt is impossible to ignore. As is the chill. I rinse out the shampoo quickly, do the same routine with conditioner. Then—after a quick once-over with a loofah and some body wash—I turn the shower off.
I manage to avoid thinking for a good fifteen minutes as I dry off, put lotion on, get dressed. But when I’m finally done, when I’m standing in front of the bathroom mirror applying makeup and drying my hair, I can’t ignore the mess I’ve made any longer.
Twice now I’ve gotten so overwhelmed by Ian that I’ve walked out of what is supposed to be the cover interview for next month’s Vanity Fair. Twice now I’ve run away before he could ask any of the questions that he needs to make the piece anywhere close to decent—questions that will not only further the magazine’s agenda but the one set forth by my agent, as well.
If we were dealing with a normal timetable, maybe it wouldn’t be such a big deal—especially considering he’s at least partially responsible for today’s debacle. But we’re not—we’re already cutting this interview as close as we possibly can. Usually cover articles like this are done months in advance, but since Ian and I couldn’t get our schedules to sync up before this week, he’s got almost no time to turn the article in if it’s going to actually make it to print. The only reason Vanity Fair even gave us this leeway is they loved the idea of Ian—the man who finally uncovered the truth about the Belladonna murder after fifty years of lies—writing the story of the actress who plays her.