Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

AUGUST

Yesterday royally sucked. I spent over an hour in the shower crying and weeping like a baby. It was not one of my crowning moments. I have been asleep since last night and practically all day today. For the last three hours I have lain awake in this bed, my hand running over his cold spot on the bed, missing him, us like crazy.

“Screw this.” Sighing, I will my body to cooperate with me and get out of bed. I take a moment to see how dizzy I am and when it seems like my body is deciding to take mercy on me today, I go in my closet and pick out Declan’s favorite dress.

For our graduation present, his father sent us both to Italy for a month. We spent a week in Rome, one in Verona and two in Sardinia swimming and laughing, forgetting all the loss and grief. While in Verona, we visited some of the lace shops and in one of them the owner, a sweet lady named Greta, insisted on making a custom dress. She said, well I think she said with what little Italian I know, that my figure deserved a dress for princesses.

When I went to pick it up I was flabbergasted. The dress is a light seafoam blue in the softest silk I have ever felt. The overlay is pure Italian lace in white, embroidered with her family's signature pattern. The entire thing comes just above my knee but fits me like a glove.

On our last day of our trip Declan planned this extravagant date for us to a restaurant where the chef cooks your food at the table. I wore this dress then and he tripped over himself when he saw me in it. He made me promise that when we married, if Greta is still alive I will get her to make my dress. I haven’t worn it since and since we hardly ever go to such fancy places, why not wear it at home and cook him a dinner fit for the most wonderful man in the world?

Showered and still feeling alright, I grab my purse and head to the grocery store on the corner. For the past few months, when I eat, it has been takeout, which I make sure to get enough for him, or he has cooked on the weekend and made stuff for the week. I used to love cooking for him and making sure he had lunch and such, but lately, well, nothing has been the same.

Deciding on his favorite: meatloaf, mashed potatoes with some chunks in them, and green beans. I put everything in the cart, paid for it, and took them the ten-minute home. I just have enough time to make the meatloaf and get it into the oven, boil the potatoes, which can be while I am getting dressed, and roast the green beans.

Satisfied that everything is doing its business, I stare at myself in the mirror. Turning sideways, I cringe at how thin I have gotten over the past few months. Declan would never mention it, but I know it bothers him. I can tell when he thinks I am asleep, and his hand traces the part of my body he used to love.

I have always been thin, fit, and tiny compared to Declan. My sister used to call me chicken legs, and she was right. But I have always been blessed in the hip area. My hips were a thing of envy for my mom and sister, but there were pleasures for Declan. He loved them, especially when he was making love to me from behind, gripping them and putting bruises on them. Now, however, they are hardly visible at all, and that alone makes me want to cry.

“Quit it.” I chastise myself and go back to getting ready. Out of the shower now, I lotion up, try not to look at my slight frame, and grab the dress from the closet. With all the weight I have lost, I don’t need a bra on, so I grab some lace undies to go with it, and when it is on me, the tears pour down my face. The fit is awful. Where it was snug is not even that. My impulse is to take it off and go back to bed, but I am not going to allow this to ruin this night.

Finished trying to make myself presentable, I walk into the kitchen just as the timer is going off. Before grabbing the food, I light some candles and turn the lights out. Walking back into the kitchen, I put the potatoes in the blender with ranch seasoning packet, garlic powder, sour cream, butter, and a bit of salt and pepper and allow it to blend for a moment while I pull the green beans from the stove. I hear the key in the door, letting me know he is home as well. I am pulling out the meatloaf when he walks in.

“Whoa,” he breathes, closing the door behind him.

“Welcome home, babe.” Placing the meatloaf on the counter, I walk around the island, smiling not because I feel I have to but because seeing him makes me happy even when I can’t show it.

“Wow, you look beautiful, baby.” His arms wrap around my whole body, and when his mouth touches mine, I sigh into it, allowing myself to go to my place of calm and safety, which has always been in his arms. We stay in the middle of the floor, just allowing ourselves to soak up this moment before we both pull back and smile. Then he looks around, and his eyes get big. “Oh shit. Did I miss an important event or something?” I shake my head and giggle. He is such a man.

“No, babe. I just wanted to cook for you and surprise you. I haven’t done it in a while.” I can see what he doesn’t want to say in his eyes, but I love him for not saying it.

“Well, I love this. Let me wash up and I will be right out.” Nodding, I go back into the kitchen, get out the plates, and place the food in the center of the table. I am setting the table when he comes back in, and it is obvious he has showered. God, I love it when his wet hair drips on my bare nipples.

The conversation is light, flirty, and welcome. We haven’t talked about anything serious in a while, and I love it. T makes tonight easy and guilt-free. Once both of our plates are finished, mine because there was hardly anything on it, so I didn’t have to pretend to be full, I get up to clear it, but he comes around and grips my waist.

“Why don’t you leave it, baby. I have better use for your hands,” he whispers in my ear, rubbing his hardened cock against my ass.

A moment like this would always get me wet and make me want him, but I don’t feel that, and I don’t want him to know, so I pretend.

“Oh yeah big guy?” I turn in his arms and wrap my arms around his neck. “And what would that be?” He smirks and bends his head down further into my face.

“This.”

The next thing I know, I'm pinned to the wall to the left of the bedroom door. Both of my hands are locked in just one of his larger hands above my head. His other hand reaches down and pulls the hem of my skirt. His long fingers caress my thigh. He moves my panties to the side and runs his fingers through my wetness. I moan long and loud. I do want this. My body is responding as it should, but there is a disconnect between my mind and my body. This should feel good, but it just doesn’t.

“You're so wet, pretty girl. I'm gonna destroy this pussy,” he says, pulling his fingers from me. I nod like an idiot, but now I know that’s untrue. This isn’t going to happen. He sucks his fingers into his mouth, the very same fingers that were just swiping through my wetness. I groan and lose my mind. I’m not one to “fake it,” but I don’t want to hurt his feelings. My lips devour his. His deft fingers find the eye hook above my zipper; he opens it before sliding the zipper down. My dress pools at my feet. He pulls away from my mouth, leaning away from me. His deep green eyes roam down my body.

He hooks his thumbs in the edge of my panties, caressing my skin with his fingertips before sliding them down my legs. “Step,” he says, and I do so immediately. Then he buries his face in my pussy. I love it when he eats me out, but I feel nothing. He stops well before I come and then carries me to our bed.

He strips down and climbs on top of me. He slams his cock into me. I’ve missed this connection, this closeness, but I feel nothing.

He slams into me over and over, groaning my name. I fake my orgasm as he fills me. He looks down at me, and I know he knows that I didn’t come. He leans down and kisses me. He looks crushed but doesn’t make me feel bad about it. I love him so much.

“It’s okay, baby.” He pulls out of me and lies down beside me. He pulls me into his chest, and I begin to cry. He rubs my back and lets me cry. He doesn’t know why I’m upset; I know this is killing me.

“Is it?” I ask, unsure of what the future holds for us. The bleakness is vast and all I can see.