Page 32 of Forsaken Vows

I imagined my hand was Sam’s big, callused, warm hand sliding down my stomach, his fingers parting my folds, massaging my clit.

He had a way of touching me that made me feel like I wassomething precious and filthy all at once. Massaging my clit in tiny circles I gasped, my back arching—one hand between my thighs, the other gripping the pillow like it might anchor me.

I wasn’t even trying to cum. I just wanted to feel something that didn’t ache.

But my orgasm still crept up—tight and desperate.

I imagined him saying. “Let me see how pretty you look when you fall apart.”

I could hear his voice in my ear. Feel his breath on my skin.

“You like this dick, don’t you?”

I felt his mouth brushing my neck in my mind. “Let me get deeper, baby.”

When I came, it was with tears slipping out the corners of my eyes.

I was crying. Crying while masturbating and I could still hear Sams voice in my head. Cooing to me, coaxing me.

“Say my name while you cum. Don’t hold back, baby. I want all of it.”

This couldn’t be healthy.

Chapter 17- Zane

“This shit’s for the birds,” I said out loud, to nobody but the walls.

Mark had been gone all morning—of course. Said he had errands to run, but I knew better. He just didn’t want to be here. Didn’t want to deal with preparing for the family he invited over. Before, I hadn’t asked. I hadn’t even noticed he never did. Now I noticed.

What the fuck was I even doing?

I stood in the kitchen, hands flat on the counter, staring down at the ingredients lined up like soldiers waiting for orders. A roast, potatoes, garlic, rosemary. Dinner for Mark’s parents—people who had never liked me, who only showed affection in the form of backhanded compliments and “suggestions.” People who would complain, about seasoning or richness or how I should’ve used butter instead of oil.

He should’ve asked the neighbor bitch to cook for them. She was already fucking him. Might as well let her play wife too.

Mark’s parents hated me anyway. Always had. Thought I was a gold digger. Like I ever asked him for anything. If all I wanted was money, I could’ve stayed home with my parents—I wouldn’t have gone without.

But that’s the problem with people like Mark’s parents. They see certain people, and decide who you are in five seconds, and shove you into a box you never asked to be in. And the worst part? I let them without protesting or correcting them. I let them because I loved Mark. Because I thought I couldn’t live without him.

How fucking stupid was that?

Thinking about it made me want to square up with in momma and kicks his daddy in the dick for the old shit he said.

I blinked hard. My head hurt. My chest was tight. I was cursing too much. Thinking too much. Feeling way too much.

The overhead light buzzed. The fridge hummed. I stared at the roast, at the marbling, the way blood pooled under the plastic. I glanced at the knives. My fingers twitched.

“Fuck this.”

If I stayed in that house one more second, I’d cry or scream or combust.

I left everything on the counter. Snatched open the fridge, grabbed the foil-wrapped cake, the cinnamon rolls, the cookies I’d. Packed it all into two paper grocery bags, slipped on sneakers, grabbed my keys, and left.

I didn’t leave a note. Didn’t text. Old, delusional me would have felt bad, but now? Fuck it.

Monique, a brickhouse type with wide hips and a wider afro and a light complexion, was at the front desk at the women’s shelter when I got there. She used to be a resident once—the girlfriend of some abusive Miami Dolphins player who she said would beat her for blinking too hard. Now she was free of him and used the money she sued him for to keep the shelter open.

She pulled me into a hug the second she saw me.

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