The Pretend Boyfriend novel Chapter 45

Brian Morton is a complex man. So complex that she knows she hasn't begun to scratch the tip of the iceberg. But she wants to. If he is willing to let her try.

And she is on to him now. She knows what he is like underneath all that barbed wire.

She says, "I know why you want me to leave. You've always been honest with me and I'll be honest with you now. After what happened, you don't quite trust yourself around me. Around anyone. You genuinely don't remember what happened, but deep down inside you, you think you're capable of doing things you have never done before. Especially during a blackout."

Brian remains silent, even though he is still a tense wire in his two day old grimy clothes.

She continues, "So I'm going to tell you what you need to hear, not what you want to hear from me, you stubborn twat."

She marvels that she can say all this with such a clear conscience.

She goes on, "I'm not afraid of you. I'm going to stay with you tonight whether you like it or not. And you're going to talk to me. Really, really talk to me, not brush me off with one of your stupid remarks. We're going to fix this together. I don't know how, but we're going to prove to everyone that you are still the person you thought you were. And I can't help you if you keep shoving me out of the door, dammit!"

She seizes his face and kisses him roughly.

She feels him pulling away, putting up his hands to stop her, to push her from him. But she resists and clings to him like a rudder in a sea of immoralities.

His muscles slacken, as though he is too fatigued to fight her anymore.

They finally come up for air. He wears a look of defeat. The Adam's apple in his throat moves like a running mouse. She has never seen Brian Morton like this before. She's frightened for him, and yet determined.

He whispers, "I'm scared."

"I know," she whispers back. She strokes his face lovingly.

They lie in his bed together, naked. His bedroom is masculine, done in simple tones with mood lighting from cleverly designed alcoves in the ceiling. The bed is set upon a raised platform. Everything else is designer spartan and sleek. Like him.

She is kissing him with surety. Softly. Then passionately. Voracious mouths mingling. So certain that everything will be the same as it was again. So certain he wouldn't hurt her.

Because he can hurt her. He knows that now. He's a big, strong, athletic man. He can overpower her and whatever she does to combat him will be futile.

Only he doesn't want to hurt her. He has been rough in sex before. But that was always because the woman wanted it that way. Some women desire the aggression and helpless abandon of being taken and claimed. He has read that somewhere before.

She is lying on top of him, and his erection is only semi-hard. He can't get himself in the mood tonight, no matter what she does. And she's tried plenty. She has tried playing with his nipples - tweaking them and rubbing them in the way that she knows he likes. She has tried sucking them - five minutes on each, and then gently taking his penis into her mouth and pulling at it with all the strength she has in her cheeks.

"If you're trying to cheer me up, it's not working. I'm doomed to be morose for all eternity and be baggage to my friends." He's trying to recover his old sarcasm, but even that is deflated tonight.

She creeps up to rest her head on his chest.

"I believe you," she says.

"About being baggage?"

"No. About when you said you didn't do it."

"Guilty until proven otherwise."

"Tell me what happened."

He tells her in hesitant bits and pieces, leaving nothing out. Theirs has always been an honest, no-holds-barred relationship. If she wants details on another woman, he'd tell her. He has nothing to hide, even from her.