A Gift

Matthew

The darkness of the guestroom presses in on me, suffocating and oppressive. I toss and turn, the sheets twisting around my legs like restraints. My eyes burn as I stare at the ceiling, the events from earlier replaying in my mind on an endless loop.

"Damn her," I growl, my voice harsh in the silence. "Damn her to hell."

But even as the words leave my lips, an unwelcome pang of guilt twists in my gut. I grit my teeth against it, willing the feeling away. I won't let her make me weak. I can't.

"She deserved it," I mutter, trying to convince myself. "After what she did…"

The memory of Sarah's wide, frightened eyes flashes through my mind. The soft gasp of pain as I—

No. I clench my fists, nails digging into my palms. I won't think about that. I won't let myself feel sorry for her.

It was all an act. She's playing me, just like before. I can't fall for it again.

But doubt gnaws at me, persistent and infuriating. What if she really didn't know? What if this whole time…

"Stop it," I hiss, pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes. "You're stronger than this. Don't let her get in your head."

I roll onto my side, glaring into the darkness. The anger that's been my constant companion for so long wars with an unfamiliar ache in my chest. I want to hate her. God, I want to hate her so badly. But something has shifted, leaving me unbalanced and raw.

"She has to be lying," I mutter, but the words lack conviction. "It's just another manipulation. It has to be."

I sit up abruptly, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. My hands rake through my hair, tugging at the roots as if the pain might clear my head. But Sarah's face haunts me.

I can't shake the feeling that I've made a terrible mistake.

The memory of Sarah's body under mine floods my senses, unbidden and unwelcome. My skin burns with the phantom touch of her soft curves, the taste of her lips lingering on mine. I groan, disgusted with myself for craving what I swore to despise.

"Damn it," I hiss, pressing my palms against my eyes. "This isn't how it's supposed to be."

But my treacherous body remembers every detail, every gasp and shudder. The way she clung to me, her inexperience evident in every tentative touch.

A goddamn virgin. How could I not have known?

"No," I mutter, shaking my head violently. "It doesn't change anything. She's still a terrible person."

She was a virgin, and I hurt her.

Fuck, fuck, fuck!

It's too late to turn back now. The deed is done.

But this is what I wanted, to make her pay, right? She deserves everything she gets. I hate her. I have to hate her.

But hate is not what I felt when I had sex with her.

Even now, my body is aching to have her again, to lose myself in her soft curves. I am already hard just thinking about it.

I want to cling to the bitter resentment that has driven me for so long… but in the aftermath of our joining, I find myself drowning in confusion. How can something so wrong feel so incredibly good?

But Amanda…I still love Amanda.

Don't I?

But I've let myself find pleasure in the arms of the woman I blame for taking her away from me. The woman whose very existence is a mockery of everything Amanda and I shared. Isn't this ironic?

Bile rises in my throat as shame and self-loathing churn in my stomach. How could I have let myself sink so low? How could I have betrayed Amanda by fucking Sarah?

I can almost see Amanda's face, her gentle eyes filled with disappointment and hurt.

But it's too late to worry about that now. And at the back of my mind, I wonder how Sarah is doing.

She must be sore, I think to myself. After all, I didn't hold back when I pounded into her, treating her body roughly like a toy. I made sure she felt pain when I took her.

Is she still awake, crying in bed? Or is she sleeping?

Before I can stop myself, I'm on my feet, moving towards her room. My hand hesitates on the knob, rational thought warring with this inexplicable need to see her.

Just to check, I tell myself. I am just curious.

I pause outside her door, listening. No sound comes from inside.

I shouldn't care. I don't care. But I am here already, so I might as well go inside.

Slowly, carefully, I turn the handle and push the door open, my heart pounding in my chest.

I step inside, expecting Sarah curled up in bed. But she is sitting at the dressing table, her back to the door.

She is brushing her hair. It was longer than I thought. But then again, I never really paid much attention to her.

I watch, transfixed, as the brush glides through her golden tresses, the strands gleaming like silk in the light. There is something so weirdly erotic about the scene.

She's wearing a nightgown, the thin fabric clinging to her curves and translucent because of her damp skin. I can feel my cock turning hard again, much to my annoyance.

She is not particularly pretty. She doesn't compare to Amanda's beauty, but there's something alluring about her. Even though my anger clouds my brain, I can still see it.

I clear my throat.

Startled, the brush slips from her fingers and clatters onto the table. She turns slowly, her wide eyes meeting mine in the mirror. There's a flicker of fear in her gaze, but she quickly changes her expression into calm indifference.

"I thought you were sleeping," she says softly.

I step into the room, closing the door behind me with a deliberate click.

"I was," I say.

"Do you need something?" she asks. "If…if you need extra pillows or something…"

"No," I cut her off sharply. "I don't need anything. I think I will sleep in here after all."

"Oh," she says, looking at me with those eyes again. "I thought you said you didn't want to sleep in the same bed as me."

"I changed my mind," I reply, taking a slow step closer. "We are already married, and I already fucked you, so what's the point of separate beds? But I want to be clear. This doesn't mean I am accepting you as my wife by any means."

Her lips press into a thin line. "You can do what you want. It's your house too," she finally says, her tone resigned.

"Alright. Goodnight, then," I say and stride toward the bed.

"Um…Matthew?"

I turn around. "What?"

She stands up and my eyes can't help but wander down to her body.

Sarah's nightgown hugs her curves, the thin fabric leaving little to the imagination. I can see the outline of her breasts and the swell of her hips. My eyes linger on the juncture between her thighs, remembering how it felt to be buried deep inside her warmth.

Dammit…

She shifts uncomfortably under my scrutiny, wrapping her arms around herself in a protective gesture. "Before we went home, Daddy gave me…us something."

I raise an eyebrow, momentarily distracted from her body. "What's that?"

She turns around and walks toward her purse, which is sitting on top of the dresser. She rummages through it and takes out a white envelope. Then she walks back to me and holds it up. "Take a look."

I take the envelope and look inside.

Inside the envelope is what looks like two tickets. I pull them out, glancing at them quickly. "Tickets to Aruba?" I ask, looking at her questioningly.

She nods. "For our honeymoon."

Honeymoon? The word feels foreign, almost laughable.

My first instinct is to scoff, to toss the tickets on the floor and remind her this marriage is nothing but a means to an end. But something in her expression stops me.

She looks nervous, her teeth nibbling at her lower lip, her hands twisting together. There's no smugness, no hint of manipulation in her eyes. Just… sadness.

"I assume you want to go to this despite everything?" I ask, my tone sharp.

"It's just a trip," she says quietly, her voice so soft I almost miss it. "If you don't want to go, we don't have to."

I clench my jaw, looking down at the tickets again. "Sure, why not? Let's continue this charade. Got to keep up appearance, right?"

Sarah's face flickers with something—relief, maybe?

She takes the tickets back. "Thank you."

"Yeah, whatever. I am going to sleep," I say and head back to bed.

I hear her footsteps as she puts the tickets back in her purse. Then I hear the faint rustle of her climbing into bed.

I close my eyes, willing sleep to come, but my mind refuses to quiet.

Her calm acceptance of everything bothers me. No fight, no pushback. Just quiet compliance. It's unnerving, and worse, it makes me feel like the villain in all of this.

She could at least retaliate. Yell at me, curse at me for hurting her and taking her virginity in such a painful way. Instead, she just…takes it.

I shift onto my side, facing away from her. The faint scent of her shampoo lingers in the air, and I grit my teeth. This week in Aruba might be hell, but I'll endure it. God knows I could use a vacation.

For now, though, I just need to make it through the night without needing to touch her again.