HEY GUYS!!!!!
SO IVE BEEN THINKING A LOT AND IVE BEEN CHANGING MY MIND BACK AND FORTH
BUT IVE FINALLY DECIDED THAT I AM CHANGING THE MAIN GIRLS NAME KYLEE ROBERTS TO TAMARA GOLD!?
YES? NO?
OH WELL..... COMMENT IF YOU LIKE THE CHANGE OR IF YOU DONT!
HONEST OPINOINS ARE WELL NEEDED!!!!
THATS ALL.
THANKS!
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2 months later.
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Harry threw his head back, straining his neck deliciously as he grunted throatily in pleasure. My glazed eyes flashed greedily over the criss-cross of long, prominent veins along his throat.
As beautiful as his neck was, these veins only ever appeared on two occasions; when he was singing, and when he was fucking.
He drove his hips back and forth relentlessly, and I felt the rush of warmth building fast in my abdomen, my toes and fingers curling in retaliation. I squealed, longing to reach my release, yearning for my orgasm. Harry's tip hit my G-spot perfectly and I cried out breathlessly, my head spinning dizzily as he worked urgently above me. I rolled my hips against his sharp thrusts so his pubic bone ground against my clit, sending me into spasms of untouched, indescribable pleasure, my fingers bunching up in his hair, pulling gently on his soft curls.
"Fuck, Tamara..." he groaned huskily, voice heavy with lust and face buried deep in the crevice of my neck. "You feel so good..."
I sighed an incoherent mutter of agreement, working on simply enjoying the feelings he created inside of me. I just wanted pleasure, I just wanted an orgasm. It would make me feel better, I convinced myself. It would rid me of this empty filling in the pit of my stomach, the one which would not disappear no matter how many sweet nothings he whispered, no matter how fervent his fingers felt on my skin.
It wasn't the same anymore. We weren't the same.
"Gonna come," he moaned into my hair; long, clumsy fingers brushing my blonde waves off my face. I felt a twinge of nausea in my stomach as he touched me so lovingly, as I tried to ignore how it didn't feel the same as usual - he didn't feel the same.
I kept my eyes clamped firmly shut, the same way I had since he'd first entered me.
I couldn't bear to look at him.
"Tammy," he moaned, his voice thick and gravelly, "Tamara, are you close?"
I nodded stiffly, swaying my hips in slow circles, voice catching in my throat due to the marvellous friction on my clit. I could feel myself tipping over the edge, but I didn't want to fall. I gritted my teeth, unable to stop my orgasm any longer, and my whole body arching against him, thighs tensing and tired hands gripping loosely to the moist skin of his taut biceps.
His name didn't leave my lips as he let himself loose, spilling everything he had into me, the warmth of his high seeming to seep through his skin onto me. He said my name, though, as his warm, firm body came inside me. His familiar arms gave way so he collapsed onto of me, foreheads touching softly, though there was no tenderness in the action.
Only guilt, deep in the pit of my stomach.
His lips began attacking my neck, but it was out of habit mostly, as well as a need to reassure himself that we were okay. His kisses didn't work that way for me, and there was none of the usual comfort of having his body pressed to mine - all I felt was disgust at myself.
He rested at last, lying cradled in my arms, head resting on my chest so his curls tickled across my collarbones. I held him even though it made me feel sick; revolted at how I'd failed him, at how his heart was broken because of me.
There was a long, still silence as he lay in my arms, both spent, and both feeling heaviness in the air and seeing the elephant in the corner of the room.
He licked his lips slowly, glistening green eyes glimpsing up at me apprehensively from below long, dark lashes. "How was it for you?" he muttered breathily, his fingers playing in my hair - something which would seem like an idle movement to the untrained eye, but which I saw for what it really was.
The reality was that Harry felt self conscious, because of me. He'd embarrassingly taken to asking me every time we'd finished if it had, "been okay," or, "felt alright on my end".
It sickened me that he was comparing himself - that he was afraid that he couldn't please me like him.
Maybe he thought he wasn't good enough in bed, and that was why I had gone looking for more. Maybe he tortured himself with thoughts of his inadequacy, the same way I tortured myself with thoughts of his pain.
"Fine," I murmured quietly in reply, hands burrowing into his hair simply because they felt at home there. I thought about how the other boy's hair had felt beneath my fingers a few days ago as I'd screamed his name in ecstasy.
Something strange told me that was what Harry was thinking about too.
We lay in awkward silence, breaths settling, fingers twirling through the others tresses, both wondering where we'd gone so wrong. Maybe it was the fear of commitment, or the terror at the thought of appearing weak in the other's eyes. Either way, we'd drifted apart, and it was all ever since that Valentine's Night.
I knew it was my fault. He loved me, and that terrified me. He wanted us to be together, and that scared me even more, for many reasons. Mainly because, if I let people in, they had a chance to hurt me. I'd learned that. Loving people was weakness, because that gave them the power to destroy you at the click of their fingers. Now, I was in too deep with Harry to tell myself I didn't care about him, to tell myself that if he dumped me on the street tomorrow it wouldn't rip me to shreds. It was too late to lie and say I didn't love him with every tiny cell in my body. But the sad logic of my situation was, he couldn't hurt me if I hurt him first.
"I missed you," he sighed. He blinked slowly, eyes distant and cold as he said it. "You didn't return my calls."
My stomach churned with tight repulsion, feeling appalled at myself. At how I'd barely contacted him during his entire fortnight in L.A., bar the odd text to let him know that I was still alive. I had rejected all his phone calls, not bothering to pick up.
"I missed you, too, Harry," I croaked, and the words felt like acid in my throat. It was a lie. I hadn't missed him at all, not once. Not when he'd sat desperately at the other end of a phone three thousand miles away, trying to get through to me, simply to hear my voice, while I lay tangled in the arms of somebody else. I had simply ignored his calls, not thinking about him once.
Not thinking at all, really.
"Then why didn't you call?" He mumbled weakly, glancing down so I couldn't see the pain in his eyes. He was like a child trying not to cry after grazing their knee, embarrassed of looking feeble and pathetic. He was so vulnerable, so easily broken, and I'd snapped him in two in the palms of my hands.
I swallowed sharply, having no real answer for him. Only weak excuses.
"I was busy." My voice was dry and sounded false even to my ears, but he simply nodded in compliance, lacking the energy needed to fight with me.
The weighty silence fell once again, and I felt my heart rip up at the sight of him, lying curled up with his head resting on the swell of my breasts, looking like the most defenceless thing in the word. I felt disgusting.
It was all my fault. Purely because I was the one who'd done this to him, who had reduced him to a quivering, insecure mess who had been forced to duck out of 4 performances in the states due to 'ill health'. He wasn't the strong, bubbly, slightly arrogant boy who I'd first met anymore, the one who'd smoothly chatted me up and taken me home without breaking a sweat. The one who was a little bit cheeky, especially in the bedroom - but now held his head down and simply got on with it.
He'd lost all his confidence because of me. When we had sex now, it was so robotic, so emotionless. The usual affection wasn't there anymore, the passion in his movements and the heat between us, the connection. It niggled at me that that was how Friends with Benefits should be - because now, the sex was purely physical, nothing more or less. The worst part of all, the bit that made me feel sick to my stomach was when I saw that there was no sparkle in his eyes anymore - no love.
My phone buzzed loudly on the floor just next to the bed, breaking the tranquillity in the air. I felt my heart flutter, before the nagging guilt set in bones.
I glanced down timidly at Harry, my eyes stinging inevitably. I watched his eyes, already deep with grief, distance themselves further. His jaw tensed, and his hands around my waist loosened, twisting his body so I could move, knowing in himself that our embrace was coming to a quick close now that my attention was truly drawn elsewhere.
He'd grown to sense danger at the sight of my Blackberry. The one which constantly vibrated nowadays, the one I was constantly checking for new messages. It had quickly become his enemy, just as quickly as he'd become suspicious of it.
I waited a few moments, laying there as though I was unfazed by the sound of my phone. It was pointless; I was positive he could hear my hammering heart in my chest.
Slowly, I shifted from beneath him, leaning over the edge of the mattress and taking the small, black device in my hand from where it lay amongst my strewn underwear and his blue jeans. I glimpsed at the screen to see the small, flashing envelope and the blue notification light that had once been reserved for Harry.
I lay back casually; making sure the screen was far from his distrustful eyes, trying to keep the jumpy enthusiasm from reaching my expression. I felt like screaming at myself as I watched the soft, quiet sadness seep into his features; the slow realisation that he was fighting a losing battle.
"Who is it?" he asked faintly, his words a low murmur which almost became inaudible. He needn't have bothered. Harry wasn't stupid; he knew as well as I did who it was. He may not have known the exact name or age, or address or hair colour of the threat on the other end of my mobile, but there was one fact Harry was certain of; this other boy was replacing him.
And it broke his poor, little heart.
I choked out the usual, rehearsed response in agony. "Nobody."
I watched his face crumple, brows furrowing as the pain settled into his brain of the fact that I was texting him even after we'd made love. I felt my own heart crushing into a ball, wanting just to pull him into me and cry and wail and tell him that I was sorry that I wasn't enough for him. To tell him I never wanted to hurt him, but it was for the best. I wanted to make sure he knew that it wasn't his fault and that it wasn't because there was anything wrong with him. If anything, he was too perfect. Any girl would delight in how Harry worshiped me; how he cared and called and would willingly devote every breath to me if I asked him to.
It was all down to me, all because of how selfish and horrible I was. It was because I was inadequate; because I was scared.
1 New Message:
You didn't text back... are you with him?
I hope he's not touching you like I did on
Monday night...
-Josh, xxx