Page 24 of The Sting of Love
I’ve been calling William since I spoke to Dad. Each time, his phone went straight to voicemail. I left three messages and decided against a forth knowing he wasn’t going to get back to me until he decided when he wanted to speak to me. That’s what he’s like, even in an emergency.
I knew it would have been very late in the night and bordering the early hours of the morning, but sparing the respect for the time was the last thing on my mind since he couldn’t spare the respect for my belongings.
I’m just praying Dad can do something. It would break my heart if William threw away any of my paintings. These past months, I’ve seen a very vindictive side to him I never knew existed. It’s hard to believe he’s the same man who told me he loved me and asked me to marry him.
I hate him, and I hate all that he’s put me through. I never even had that spell of time where I experienced the heartbreak and loss of him. I hated him from the minute he walked away from me at the altar. Then I hated him even more when I discovered his true self and got to know the real him.
Fuck. Rage swells within my chest, and I throw the phone across the room. It hits the wall at the same time the doorbell rings.
The last thing I want to do is see anyone, and if I were back in LA, I wouldn’t answer the door, but shit, I can’t piss Lurlene off by not getting the door if she might have a delivery or something.
I grab a tissue from the Kleenex box on the coffee table, dry my tears as best as I can, then head to the door.
There are footsteps on the veranda outside. I look through the peephole, and my blood runs cold inside my veins then it heats up. It’s a dance of confusion because I can’t believe who it is I’m seeing standing there on the other side of the door.
Donny.
It’s him.
He’s dressed in a white button-down dress shirt similar to what he wore the other night, and he’s got the first few buttons undone. His hair is slightly tousled, and the wind floats over the spiky strands, lifting them slightly. In the bright sunlight, his eyes look even more striking, and fuck… he’s here.
I’m momentarily stunned, but only momentarily. The same force that drew me to him the other night takes over, and I open the door just as he was about to step away.
Joy bubbles inside me. After the conversation I just had with William, I’m surprised I can feel any sort of emotion that resembles joy. It’s undoubtedly there though, right inside my heart, swelling in a bubble of excitement, and I know I shouldn’t be this happy to see him.
He stares back at me, looking me over like he’s trying to assess me. He must notice that I was crying. I’m not the sort of person who can dab my eyes and look fine. When I cry my whole face goes puffy and my eyes red almost in an instant.
He takes a step forward, continuing his silent observation, and I stare back at him, questions filling my mind.
How did he find me?
How does he know where I live?
Why is he here?
What does he want?
Why did he have a gun?
The questions swirl around in my head, but the happiness of seeing him overrides everything, and I get lost in him all over again when he touches my face.
The warmth of his fingers on my skin seeps in and goes straight to my heart. That warmth grows when he runs his fingers over my cheek and the tears I was holding back start to escape.
This is the second time that this man has come to my emotional rescue and given me exactly what I needed. A simple touch from a stranger. It’s too crazy, and I know I would sound like some desperate woman if I explained it to anybody.
But there’s that look again. Deep in his eyes, he looks at me like I’m everything and enough, and I can’t believe a man as perfect as this could look at me like that.
So, when he leans forward, I move to him too, and our lips meet for a kiss that sings through my soul and sparks need, want, and desire all at once in my body.
His lips on mine steal my thoughts, and I don’t care about anything besides him touching me.
As he comes closer and moves inside the house with me, I vaguely hear the door close. Knowing we’re inside where no one can see us unleashes my greed, and I find myself tugging at his shirt.
We kiss like we want to consume each other, and something tears. It’s my dress. He rips at it, and the straps split away from my shoulders.
We sink to the ground on the plush white rug on the living room floor, where I rip his shirt so hard the buttons pop off and clatter against the floorboards.
He pauses from devouring my lips just long enough to whip his shirt off, unveiling his perfect torso, and I savor getting to see him all over again.
