‘It’s not about you…’ the words rolled painfully through her heart. ‘It’s not about you failing me in any way. It’s not about you not loving me and showing me.’ Words she wanted to tell him but he had walked away. For whatever reason she was yet to figure out, he had walked away and disconnected.
Both shunned any trappings of drama. Life had enough of its own organic drama without stoking the fire and losing yourself and a relationship over misunderstandings. But sometimes you’re just moody. Sometimes there are too many changes and she had many of those recently.
She had lost her comfort. She had lost her oasis and what had been familiar for so long. Her emotions were wearing thin and to survive she kept pulling herself up from the land of the ‘unknown’ saying, ‘This will all be worth it in a few more months.’
She regretted nothing. And especially she didn’t regret him in her life. She loved him. Adored him, and above all wanted him!
But now she no longer felt safe with him. Safe enough to show him some weakness; any cracks in his image of her. He had been in a ‘lite’ mood for days and she needed his darkness. Out of her frustration and own space, she criticized his light.
She knew she was wrong before she ever typed the words. She knew she could be gentler in telling him what was needed from him. She knew that now…now that he had shut down, closed her out and walked away. But at that moment she didn’t feel gentle, kind or diplomatic…she wanted his rawness to make her feel something. His darkness to remind her of what they had and how that was all that mattered. So instead of appreciating the mood he was in, instead of showing him she loved how he loved her; she was sharp, cutting and he walked out feeling like a failure. Her cutting mood now replaced by fucking pain.
Alone in the dark, she curled up on the couch, wearing his robe. Her naked body trying to absorb his scent. Facing the back cushion, eyes closed she tried to console her aching heart by remembering his voice and touch. Wondering when he would find his way back to her.
She tried many times since he left to apologize; trying to explain, trying to touch him again. He was silent. Her texts went unread. Now in a fetal position, she laid with her heart crumbling. The words, “It’s not about you…” filling her thoughts.
She woke there on the couch with the morning light barely breaking through the curtained window. She felt his hand against her warm bare cunt and two fingers swiftly invading her. “Don’t fucking move or say a word,” he whispered abruptly in her ear.
He pushed her forward, pressed her face into the cushion and ripped his robe off her shoulders. He didn’t bother removing his commando jeans, just unzipped and pushed them down far enough to give room to enter her. She felt the fabric of his jeans moving across her bare thighs as his cock maliciously pulverize her cunt. His face, buried in her clavicle, teeth pressing into her flesh, her hair caught up in his grip twisting her face to the side. His hot breath against her neck. In his silence, she could feel his darkness, his raw passion … his pain from the slicing of her words.
Her body broke and flooded with his heat as he moved furiously reminding her that even in pain she belonged to him. As her orgasm shattered through her frame so did the plaguing of uncertainties. All that mattered was him and his seed filling her once again. All that was needed was the sound of his cavernous growl as his own uncertainties left and his breathing joined hers.
All that was needed was the reviving of what mattered…the reviving of the darkness they shared.