Page 16 of Gluttony

“I am,” he’d replied, “how do you know?”

“Your tattoo of the laughing skull breaking the chains,” she’d responded. “I recognize it.”

“How?”

“They’re local.”

Once again, he’d been shocked, then wary, and evenmorecurious. She could have been any one of the thousands offollowers around the world, but she knew his tatt because she was a local. What were the odds?

From there, their conversations had grown in length and depth. In the beginning, he’d kept things light and flirty, not wanting to give her any expectation of there being any offline, IRL interactions. He’d had fun, appreciating her humor, her taste in music, movies—she loved anything horror by Blumhouse and A24—and food. She was real. Honest. Pure. And over the course of months, he’d grown to need her, depend on her, crave her. Every moment spent speaking with her, thinking about her, drove his feelings deeper, drilling down to parts of himself he never thought existed. He knew he was capable of feeling deeply, he just never expected it to happen with a woman he’d never seen or spoken to at that point.

The night he’d first heard the husky velvet of her voice, he’d jacked off three times, each time he’d fantasized about that smoky voice moaning his name in pleasure, begging for his cock, to suck it, lick it, ride it. He’d never come so fast or so hard in his life.

That was the night he’d realize that, with her, things were different.

And he’d wanted more.

But he’d slaughtered any chance of that now, hadn’t he?

His gaze flicked to the image on his monitor once more, taking in the expression on her face, the devastation, the pain, the brilliant rage. Even in her blistering anger, she was heartstoppingly beautiful.

“Valentina….” His throat felt raw, bleeding, as he spoke her name.

For the first time…he’d seen her, looked upon her face, peered into the most beautiful eyes he’d ever seen. Iridescent skin that begged for his breathless kisses, plump, pink lips that defied reality or fantasy, exotic eyes with an upward tilt,cheeks that were flushed deep red with emotion, a lush body, big, unbound breasts, thick arms that would wrap around him perfectly as she rode behind him on his bike. His woman. His old lady. His every-fucking-thing.

She was lavish, luscious perfection…but it was her eyes that had stolen his soul.

Deep brown with flecks of green and gold around the pupil, like a pile of autumn leaves on the forest floor, soft, breathtaking, and bewitching. He’d never seen eyes quite as stunning as hers, as they glittered with emotion so stark, violent, and scorching, he’d felt obliterated on the spot.

And they were filled with tears.

And pain…so much fucking pain.

His breath left his body in an explosion, his guts churning, his skin growing too tight for his bones, his eyes blurring—what had he done?

“Oh, fuck…,” he breathed raggedly, his voice a torn rasp, as the totality of what he’d done finally landed on him, the weight so crushing he couldn’t drag air into his burning lungs. “Oh, fuck….”

I wanted to trust you, to believe you were loyal, committed, willing to wait….Her words echoed in his head, bashing against his thoughts, then clattering down to slam against his heart.

Holy fuck,what the hell had he done? His chest hollowed out as his heart disintegrated at the truth of what he’d lost.

He could rememberthatconversation, the one where he’d made that promise. They’d been talking, the emotions deeper than ever before, and she’d admitted, after a long, speaking silence, that she’d wanted more with him…and he’d told her he wanted the same, to be with her, offline, in real life. To shed the mentality of the perpetual bachelor to which he’d clung for twenty-nine years. For the first time, he wanted more from a woman than just sex; he wanted it all. With Valentina. Whenthey’d both admitted to wanting more, they both knew what that meant, that she’d have to finally come out from behind her screen so they could be together, face-to-face. It had been a tremendous moment, one that held so much potential, so much promise. More than anything in his life, he wanted to see her. To peer into the eyes of the woman who owned him heart and soul, but…she was shy—no, not shy,self-conscious. He knew she was scarred from an accident when she was twelve, knew that she had body image issues about her weight and her looks, but he didn’t give a shit about any of that, he just wanted her. To be with her. He’d fallen for her, for her heart and her soul and her laugh and her wit and her brilliance. If he could beg God for a woman who matched him perfectly, the Almighty would fashion the clouds over Valentina into a big arrow. She was meant for him, to be his. He’d told her that, over and over again, doing what he could to help lift her, encourage her, but she held fast to her fear.

During that conversation that night, forty-nine days ago now, she’d pushed back on meeting him, asking for time. Knowing she needed it, and that he had no desire to commit to any other woman, he promised to give her that time, to wait for her, until she finally gathered the strength to meet him.

…your definition of wait is drastically different from mine….

Well, if that wasn’t the fucking truth.

God, how could he have been so goddamn arrogant? Yes, when he’d promised to wait, to him, it meant doing what he usually did, keep his emotions out of the bedroom. That the sex with whoever he brought home meant nothing because, honestly, when he fucked those other women, it really did mean nothing to him other than a quick, easy release. There were no emotions involved, no strings, no desire for commitment to those women. He kept his heart and his head out of it, allowinghis body, his primal need to spill his seed, to have control. To him, his heart only wanted one woman…the woman who’d effectively shoved her hand into his chest, and ripped his heart out.

Yeah, but you ripped hers out first, you motherfucking piece of shit!

Waiting, to her, his Daisy, meant something wholly different:

…a show of loyalty or commitment, to put off your own desires to show you can be trusted, to remain faithful, to make an effort to delay personal gratification….

And he’d done none of that. She was right, he had fucked some random three days after he’d made that promise, but, in his defense, he honestly never thought of it as being disloyal. To him, a man who’d been raised by a single father who saw nothing wrong with playing the field, sex was a transaction, empty, fleeting, no connection other than dick in pussy, so it never occurred to him that Valentina would consider it…deceitful.

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