The Lies He Told | PSYCHOLOGICAL THRILLER ROMANCE |

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Daniel is a vision of masculine beauty, his blue eyes akin to pools of blue water that could drown even the most resilient of hearts. I was powerless against his advances. His kisses were reverent and insistent, like those of a man deprived of passion for decades. His touch stirred my senses in a way that was both intoxicating and enigmatic.

His multifaceted personality is a tapestry of contradictions, but one thread is becoming increasingly apparent: his inherent selfishness. It had infiltrated our intimate moments, casting a pall over our once-loving marriage. His decisions are unyielding and uncompromising, particularly in matters of love and sex.

Whether turned on or not, I succumbed to his advances and obeyed his command, a role I had long embraced.

Yet, beneath the surface, like subtle undercurrents that carried me astray, lay the unspoken truths and the untamed passions I had nurtured in secret, an ever-deepening hollowness derived from his insatiable craving for self-gratification.

His body, a heavy weight on my chest, pressed down on me. His presence was as cold and lifeless as a stone statue.

I squeezed my eyes shut, escaping the mundane thoughts that had plagued me. But instead of finding solace, the emptiness within me grew even bigger. Yet, here I am, with the man I love, who felt like a stranger to me.

A perceptible disconnect emerged between my cognitive and physical states, as though my mental processes were becoming increasingly remote. My emotions had evaporated, leaving me with a gaping void and a haunting sense of loneliness.

His smooth hands sought me out as if it were a necessity for him to start his day. Focussed solely on his satisfaction, he grasped my breasts with a fervent intensity, tugging painfully on them.

Even though I had grown accustomed to the selfish ambition he'd brought to our bedroom activities, my frustration never failed to escalate.

I could not break free from this emotional rut, no matter how hard I tried to talk myself out of the dark, but I was trapped in a suffocating space with no way out.

Dazed.

Drowning.

Breathless.

Motionless.

Numbness.

Stuck in a vicious cycle of adverse cognitions and confounding emotions, I forced myself to concentrate on the man above me. His hands, as smooth as silk, roamed over my body, and I stifled a shudder of discomfort. I tried to focus on the rhythm of his inhalations and his exhalations, the musky aroma that clung to his sweat-misted skin and the irresistible potency of our lust, but the more I attempted to lose myself in the moment of us, the more I felt detached, like a spectator to my own body.

He whispered affectionate sentiments into my ear, expressing his deep love for me, his longing for my closeness, and the intensity with which he felt my absence during his time away. I struggled to reciprocate his affection, gentle caresses, and whispered confessions.

The accident did not just fracture bones and memories. It shattered my identity. I could no longer recall the woman I used to be in the past or the woman I was supposed to be in the present. I am not even sure if I am the same Olivia that he fell in love with. I am a fraud, a pale imitation of my former self.

My hands moved in perfect synchronisation with his own, making my way over every ridge and valley of his firm, athletic body. I responded with rapturous sighs of feigned pleasure, an erotic sound I had perfected through years of practice. I was acutely attuned to his desires and intuitively aware of his every whim.

"Olivia," he moaned against my lips as his hips rotated between my slackened thighs. "I'm going to take you to the edge."

As he began to move, I perceived a disengaged and self-indulgent manner in his movements, a foreignness in his touch, a preoccupation with his gratification.