Homewrecker (18+)

Chapter 19

There are very few romantic moments in my life- none, actually, that I can recall, though I do vaguely remember being adored at one point. It was not, in fact, for the tan of my skin, the curve of my bottom or the slope of my breasts.

It was the one time I felt so vulnerable, so deeply, disgustingly hot and bothered and out in the open, like every person that walked by could see the flush of my skin caused by such a miraculous person.

I don't look back at those vague memories, I simply and neatly tuck them away into the depths of my mind, eventually forgetting about such atrocities, refusing to ever retrieve. It's always there, though.

On the worst of days when I'm orgàsming from the roughness, the harshness of a man, every now and then I see a glimpse of those days like looking through a foggy window.

What it was like to be adored and not sexualized, I hardly remember, but what I do remember and can place so keenly is how I felt from it.

I felt it now. I was sure of it. The thump of my racing heart was, of course, my arousal, but a lot of it was made up of my rare anxieties. What was he seeing of me right now? Did I look hideous drenched in salt water? Ungraceful, even? Fat? What was he seeing in those sunlit, chocolate eyes of his?

Was he fond of me as a person or just a sex toy, much like the way I was using him, or so that's what he thought?

I sighed, a longing, pathetic kind of sigh that caused my heart to suddenly feel as though it were sinking.

I was being hopeless. This is fúcking unacceptable for a girl like me. I don't need someone to lean on, nor have I ever. Throughout my life, I've done remotely fine without a romantic interest, but why was I suddenly feeling so defenseless? Just the thought of him touching Angelica makes me feel as though I am drowning, and I completely loathe it.

I want to scratch my heart out and tear it into pieces. What the fúck is wrong with me, depending on a man so suddenly? Why couldn't I be satisfied like I'd always been with my one night stands?

Why must I lust over Mr. Rossi and nobody else? He was invading my routine, my whole mindset, and it was slowly tearing me apart. This is not disastrous in the poetic way, this is as real and authentic as it gets.

I, Madelyn Waters, am getting truly fucked up from a man, and it is in the way that is not physical, but fúcked up emotionally. I am ashamed in what I've become, but also, a deep part of me likes this feeling- of having this new, sensational throb of my heart. It feels as blissful as an orgàsm, but coming from my heart, my soul.

Euphoria, I think. He was giving me a false sense of euphoria.

He was currently swimming around, big, burly body moving in even strokes, head professionally arched to one side and the other, back and fourth, arms gracefully diving through the surface of the rippling blue.

I gazed at him in admiration, my mind elsewhere, rummaging through thought after thought of Mr. Rossi and what he is to me, and what I am to him.

"You gonna teach me to swim or what?" I hollered, wet hands cupped around my mouth. I smiled against my wrist littered in goosebumps, excitement as evident as the sun in the sky.

He stilled in the water, dunked himself under, and then popped back up and walked over to me, water dribbling down his toned pecks, a teasing smirk splayed across his mouth.