51

                                    

                                          
Isabella
Oppressive silence eats up the room, sailing around and zipping our mouths tight. The only sounds heard are the occasional flutter of leaves from outside, and just a moment ago, a rough slam of the front door declaring that Seb hasn't quit bristling. We're the only two in the house. And the only two on awkward terms.
From my perch at the corner of the bed, I subtly glance at him. He spots that attention on him, though, struggling off his back and offering a hand for me to take. I blatantly ignore him, because previous thoughts float in, and I remember that even after crushing my heart, endangering himself past midnight, he was ballsy enough to lower his gaze.
The thought, however disheartening it is, supplies me with the courage to question him. "What were you looking at?"
"Tattoos," he merely responds. But I see that familiar spark in his eyes, the one I'd usually catch before he pins me to the bed and ravages my body.
A breakdown tangles its way up my throat.
"I'll let you have our room tonight."
"It's not our room!" I snap. "Why do you always fucking say that? Gosh. I'm looking for elsewhere to stay. Out of this house. I'm with Aya tonight."
"Pardon?!"
"Thank you so much for letting me work with you. I've been able to save up enough for a decent apartment."
"Don't, Isabella." He lugs himself over the bed, reaching for me, but I hop up. "What―" 
"I can't be here. It's too...I can't be with you. And it's been amazing, and fun, and new, and I made friends for once and I'm happy I don't need to live with Jasper anymore but―" I'm cut short by a gasp. Those woeful emotions clog my throat. I dash into the bathroom, gripping the edge of the counter and holding back my tears.
It's like if I'm with him for any longer, I'll plummet to the floor and cry a river on the tile floor. From the mirror, I see him appear at the doorframe. He looks different. And it's not because he's wearing a plain t-shirt instead of a blouse. He's the reason I'm hunched over the sink, moody and sensitive, fighting back droplets of heartache.
His dark brown eyes focus on mine. "Use me."
I gaze at him, he gazes at me. We're both hungry for each other despite the only love that exists between us being one sided.
"I want to be yours to use," he continues. "Let me give myself to you before you go. Play with me like I'm your fuck toy. Please."
Being the subject of his dominance was never something I despised or felt belittled by. I've given myself to him willingly, and he's done the same, though at a smaller scale. There's never been a sharp attraction between me and his submission, but now, with sunken love, despair as a replacement, and a thirst for vengeance, his body, his compliance is all I need.
I turn from the mirror, watching him with my naked eyes, and say harshly, "If you choose to disobey, I'm going to go fucking insane."
Slowly, hesitantly, he nods.
"You're going to get a chair and sit on it. Naked. I want your cock out."
Another nod.
Then he's following my order.