Arsen: a broken love story, стр. 73

Never this close.

Never this far.

I put my arms in between us to push him away, but he stops me when he begins to desperately kiss my lips. Between broken murmurs, Arsen whispers frantically against my lips. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please, stop. Don’t cry anymore. Don’t cry…I’m so sorry. I’m not worthy of your tears. Fuck. Fuck.”

Sitting on the floor, Arsen lifts me on top of him and holds me in his arms. My legs wrapped around his hips, I cannot bring myself to reciprocate the embrace, so I stare at his golden beauty as water drips down his face. I cry harder when I see the mistiness in his eyes.

“Oh, Arsen…” I whisper against his mouth. “Don’t you understand? I feel you on my skin, I feel your taste in my tongue, I feel your hardness inside me, and it’s never enough.”

“Fuck, Catherine. Please forgive me, forgive me, forgive me,” he repeats brokenly. He points to his chest with a closed fist, “This belongs to you. Only you, Catherine. It’s been yours since the day I met you, and it will be yours until you don’t want it anymore.” Growling, he pulls me closer to him, “I just want your hands on my body, your lips on my mouth, and your heart to be mine. Only mine.”

Lost in his words, we kiss, and then we fuck. But for once, it feels like he is making love to me.

Taste.

Sweat.

Feel.

Wetness.

Warmth.

Hardness.

Thrusts.

Fingers.

Slap…

Skin against skin.

Legs trembling.

Hair pulling.

Nails breaking through skin.

Arsen moving inside me.

My hands and legs wrapped around him.

His eyes boring into mine.

Aqua-blue fire burning me to ashes.

Nothing exists.

Nothing matters, but him.

It’s just Arsen.

And me.

Moving to the aggressive rhythm of his forceful thrusts.

Raw.

So Raw.

It hurts.

But I love it.

I love him.

His roughness feels like love.

His love is like a numbing drug.

He is my drug.

My numbness.

He whispers in my ear, “You belong to me...only me...I need you...we need each other.”

I close my eyes and get lost in mind numbing release, not hearing the last words he whispers in my ear as he comes inside me once more.

Sitting with my arms wrapped around my knees next to Arsen, I watch him sleep, looking so boyish and content. But even his perfection can’t stop the pain, the guilt, and shame from resurfacing. I’m disgusted by how low I’ve brought myself. I hate myself because I can’t let go of Arsen. And I hate myself for all the pain I’ve caused.

I lift a hand to caress his cheek feeling the stubble of his chin. Yes, I do love him. I love Arsen because he taught me to move on, live life, and forget. I love him because he makes me laugh. I love him because he opened my eyes to life and helped me heal. And I love him because he’s Arsen.

But he just isn’t my Ben.

The memory of Ben and the way we parted is pure agony. It hurts to breathe. But as I watch Arsen sleep next to me, knowing full well that I don’t deserve him, I don’t deserve anyone, I make a promise to myself. I will let Ben go and grieve for him in silence. I will do whatever is in my power to show Arsen my gratitude for having given me so much without even knowing it. If my life has taught me anything, it’s that you can’t hold onto anything that wants to go. Ben tried so hard to hold onto our relationship, onto our past, but it didn’t matter because I still cheated on him, I still planned on leaving him. So I will love Arsen while I have him with whatever I have left in me, whatever doesn’t belong to Ben, and that’s that.

One month later.

The pain is still here.

I haven’t heard from Ben, so I’ve been able to pretend that everything is peachy and perfect with Arsen. He doesn’t ask questions and I don’t bring it up. The past month has proven to be one of the happiest in a long time, but there’s something basic missing, lacking…something that won’t allow me to be complete. There’s an underlying pain that I continue to ignore. I hope that someday it goes away and that the love I feel for him will disappear too, allowing me to love Arsen completely.

Love.

We haven’t said the words yet, but I know he loves me. He must. It’s written in the way he holds my hand when we sleep, in the way he combs my hair, in the way he feeds me strawberries while we drink champagne naked on his bed, and the way he makes love to me. I know it’s there.

I love him.

When I’m with Arsen, I don’t think about Ben. Not once, not ever. It’s like Ben is an afterthought, a memory. Yet the moment Arsen steps away, thoughts of Ben swallow me whole. Melancholy fills me, and I can’t shake it until I’m in Arsen’s arms.

It’s not the perfect situation, but we are happy and somehow we’ve made it work. I never went back to work, so we keep each other busy during the days with museum visits, walks in the park, and at night we make love or fuck. I know we are both avoiding real life, but when we are together we can pretend that everything is perfect.

The paparazzi know about us now. At first they were obsessed and even dragged my divorce into the whole mess, but the attention has dissipated. I don’t know if Ben has read all the articles about us, but my dad won’t speak to me.

The last time I saw Amy, she told me not to confuse fucking with love when I told her that I had left Ben for Arsen. She said that it was easy to confuse physical gratification with the real deal, but at the end that’s all it was. Just plain old fucking.

I stopped talking to her. I don’t want to believe her words. I can’t.

After the usual pee in a cup, take down your weight, and check your blood pressure, I’m sitting on the bed in a paper gown opened at the front, exposing my breasts as I wait for Dr. Pajaree. Three days ago, Arsen found a small bump on the left one. After freaking out, he urged me to make a doctor appointment. I’m sure I’m fine, but here I am at his insistence.

When my phone vibrates, I stand up and grab it out of my bag. There’s a text message from Arsen.

Arsen: I want you in the worst possible way. You’re the drug that offers me relief…that energizes me again…that soothes me…that delivers me sweet oblivion. You’re my drug of choice, Catherine. You’re my addiction. My euphoria.

I blush and recall the things he did to me last night with a bottle of champagne and the places he drank it from.

After Dr. Pajaree comes in and checks my breasts for lumps, not finding anything but an enlarged lymph node, she tells me to meet her in her office once I’m dressed. I feel relieved because the small lump turned to be nothing, yet anxious because I think that she wants to ask me how I’m doing and about the magazine articles. How am I going to tell her that since she last saw us, Ben filed for divorce and that I’m currently living with a twenty four year old man?

Dressed, I make my way to her office. As soon as I’m sitting in front of her, I notice that she’s avoiding looking at me directly in the eyes. Worried that she found something, I’m about to ask her what the problem is when she interrupts me.

“Cathy. You’re pregnant.”