Tarnished Love by Bianca Borell
CHLOE
I step inside the event tent, my arm wrapped around his, and my mouth gapes at the opulence. With the rich décor, I feel as if I stepped into a black, gold and rose landscape. Diamonds adorn the necks and earlobes of women trying to top each other with their sophisticated dresses, men in tailored tuxes, chandeliers lighting up the sumptuous ballroom. My eyes land on her, and it will never cease to surprise me how beautiful Bria is—hair slicked back, two pear shaped diamonds in her ears, a long black gown pooling at her feet—or how she gets his undivided attention. When the bidding ends, Sophia rushes over to us, a silver silk dress hugging her body, my eyes fixed on her rose pedant sparkling with diamonds.
“What was that about?” she asks and points toward where Bria just spoke, and Damien snatches himself out of the momentary paralysis.
“Damien,” she complains, but she doesn’t say what she wants him to do either.
When she leaves a few moments later, Damien says, “I don’t understand her. She acts a certain way and then does shit like this.”
“The fundraiser is for a good cause.” I will never play dumb just for our friendship’s sake.
“That speech was personal.”
“Then ask her.”
“I can’t.”
Only one woman makes him vulnerable and words rush out, too fast for me to stop them.
“You never gave so much money before.”
“I would still give the world to what’s important to her.”
“Tell her, Damien. Tell her that you love her and stop pretending.”
“Look,” he says and points at Alexander, his hand around Bria’s waist.
“That image is what kills me, but in the moments I make her suffer, she’s mine, just mine, and I’ll take her as I can.”
“You can’t sugarcoat revenge, Damien.”
“Who says I do? I will pay for my sins, gladly, but first she should pay for hers.”
“Why keep punishing her for falling in love?”
Why do I punish him when all I want is to punish the prick who looked at me as if I am something stuck to the bottom of a shoe? The hurt reflected in his eyes undoes me.
“I should have kept quiet.”
“But it’s the truth. It’s her show, like always.”
He stomps away, and I let him hurt in peace because I can’t stop it either.
I follow the paved road that connects the du Sky and du Mont mansions, and I halt when I spot Filip, wearing a suit that fits him like it was made just for him and probably was. He makes the suit look good, not the other way around. He’s grunting and sucking on his thumb, cussing at the roses, and I smile. Spoiled prick. His head snaps up, clouds gathering in his eyes. Turn around, I urge myself, but I inch toward the roses instead.
I squat and inhale the rich, sweet smell.
“What is with women and roses?”
“They’re honest,” I answer.
“Are they?”
“They are beautiful. Perhaps they were aware from the start the appeal they would have, and as a form of self-preservation, they came with thorns. Only if you can appreciate that beauty comes with some pain, too, are you worthy of them.”
“They come with a high price tag,” he offers.
“Yes, they don’t sell themselves cheap.”
“Are we still talking about the roses?”
“This dress costs ten grand, what do you think?” I twirl for him, and the ruffles of my dress follow.
“It’s beautiful, Chloe. You’re beautiful.”
I expected another insult, had hoped for one, just for my stupid heart to stop wanting him.
I turn away, and his hands wrap around me. Every nerve ending comes alive, and I bite hard on my bottom lip to keep my emotions intact, or I will come undone any minute.
“What do you really want?”
“To be loved.” He places a kiss on my forehead.
“You can have his world, but you won’t have his love.”
Why does it always come back to Damien? I am tired, so bloody exhausted.
“Is that what you think?”
“For someone who wants to be loved, by associating yourself with Damien . . . well, it will be hard to find someone.”
Someone not him.
One last time, I turn on my heel and cup his face.
One last time, I rise on my toes and kiss him.
One last time, I add his name to the list of people whose love I craved until it killed me.
One last time, I stare at him, one last intimate moment between two emotionally stunted people.
He’s beautiful but not mine. I dart away, but my heel slips on a pebble, and I land on my hands and knees. I hiss and drop on my ass. I guess ruining a dress worth ten thousand euros makes me burst out laughing. Filip squats in front of me, and I wave him off.
“I am fine.” He catches my palm, where dust and blood mix and seep from my skin. He inspects my knees, where the same scenario unfolds. I have two photoshoots next week. Great. I scramble upstairs and wobble and hiss. He catches me, and I cry laugh.
“Come on, let’s fix you up.” He meant that as a joke, but there is no fixing me.
“Can you get Damien?”
“I am here, we don’t need him.” He doesn’t get it. Damien is my anchor, he’s safe. Unlike Filip. Every second I spend with him, I want things he will never offer me. I am nothing but a good fuck to him.
“Filip, please,” I plead because my ankle is killing me. I can’t get him on my own. Instead of listening to me, he scoops me in his arms and heads down the hall.
“What are you doing?”
“Patching you up.” He grins. It’s not me who lays my head on his chest, it’s the needy bitch inside me. He takes the stairs, and we enter his room, where everything began. I gulp while stark emotions swamp my heart.
“We could have done this downstairs too,” I say, and he shakes his head.
“No one will disturb us here.”
“We have nothing to be disturbed about.”
“Yes, keep saying that, and I keep telling myself I still can’t do this thing between us. And yet, here we are.”
He rushes into the adjoining bathroom and comes out with a first aid kit. He squats next to me, and my legs part an inch. When he grins, I could slap myself. I hiss when the disinfectant pad touches my injured skin, but he blows on it, and this gesture melts me. He treats my injuries with so much care, my heart squeezes from his tenderness. By the time he takes my palm in his, cleaning and disinfecting my cuts and puts on some salve and a bandage, I’m an emotional mess.
I rest my head in my uninjured palm, my elbow propped on my thigh, and eye him. I know he keeps himself guarded in the best-case scenario, and he’s experienced with women but not with dating them. In these aspects we’re so similar, and yet I am braver for wanting to try this out.
“This should go away in a few days,” he offers and kisses the inside of my palm.
“I have two shoots next week.”
“They can photoshop them.” I raise my ankle, and his eyes widen.
“I don’t think it’s broken.” He palms the angry, swollen spot and checks it.
“This won’t go away so soon.”
I clasp my hands together on my lap, fidgeting with my fingers, and he sits on his ass, his arms thrown over his knees.
He sizes me up, his Adam’s apple bobs, and he says, “I am jealous.” At his admission, I blink.
“Of Damien?” I narrow my eyes at him, not understanding where he intends to go with this conversation.
“I can’t stop it either.”
“There is no competition.”
He scoffs and threads a hand through his hair.
“Why because you will choose me if it ever comes to that?”
“Is there really a choice between a person who is there for me each and every time and a person who fights this”—I wave my hand between him and I—“us?”
“So there is an us now?”
I can’t have this talk with him right now, but when I stand up, pain shoots through my leg, and instead of falling to the floor, I land on him.
“Why are you so stubborn?” he asks, and I prop myself on his chest. The fight in me gone.
“Why do you have to be such a prick?”
He chuckles and the sound should be illegal because it does funny things to my battered heart.
“You should get your ankle checked.”
“I will, but now help me up.”
“I like it when you’re on top of me.” He cocks his head to the side, heat permeating my skin where his shiny golden green eyes pin on me, and the intimacy between us entraps me.
“I thought you were a top kind of guy,” I sass back, and his lips hover over mine.
“I like you on top of me as well.”
The corner of his mouth curls up, and I press my forehead against his chest. His fingers stroke my back and moans escape my mouth. I like him better when he keeps his mouth shut. My phone rings in my clutch, interrupting our silence. Filip scowls when I answer.
“Where are you?”
“I can’t walk.”
“What?”
“I’ll be right there.”
“How can you be right here if you can’t walk?” he mumbles.
“I am fine, just wait for me at the car.”
I disconnect and Filip helps me stand. But before I can compose a plan, he scoops me up and carries me down the stairs. When we reach Damien’s car, I whisper, “Thank you.”
“Would you have stayed if I’d asked you to?”
“Would you?” I retort, and he disappears behind the corner when Damien appears, worry stretching his features.
“What happened?”
“I fell. I am sorry about the dress.”
“Who cares about the damn dress. Are you all right?” His eyes scan me, and I love how he cares. This is what Filip can’t understand, Damien is always there, offering me a notion of the stability I crave.
He insists on taking me to have my ankle checked, and it’s sprained. The doctor estimates it will take six weeks to heal. I open my mouth to interject, but Damien thanks the doctor and ushers me out.
“Damien, I have to work.”
“Chloe, even though I understand your point, if you don’t rest that ankle your career as a model will end before it takes off.”
I hate when he’s right, and I spend the time on the jet to London and the drive home in silence. When we get to my building, he helps get me inside my apartment. At the commotion, Anabelle sees me and rushes over.
“Oh my god, what happened?”
“I fell.”
“Are you good, Chloe?” Damien asks, and at my nod he says, “I have to go. Call me if you need anything.”
When the two of us are alone, it’s on the tip of my tongue to tell Anabelle everything about Filip and ask for her opinion, but I don’t. Instead, while she fusses around me like a mother hen, I inform my manager about my ankle. When she assures me that even though I will miss the shoots, there will be others and I breathe a sigh of relief.
“I will tell them an emergency occurred, and I can’t attend the specialization program,” says Anabelle.
“No you won’t. You’re going. I am a big girl. I can take care of myself.”
“But . . .”
“No buts, this will advance your career. I promise I will be fine.”
“I don’t know.” I grip her shoulders and shake her.
“Pack your bag because you’re leaving tomorrow.”
“Are you sure?”
“I have Damien,” I say, answering her unspoken worry that I have no one else to help me. It’s not as if I can count on my mother or father. We watch Netflix, and even hours later, she side-eyes me from time to time, and I shake my head. It is just my ankle, and I will be fine. Even Damien has been generous with his texts. I need things to get back to the normal.
The next day I hop around, but even minimal contact with the floor sends pain shooting up my leg. My stomach rumbles, but there is no milk left in the refrigerator. Until Filip, there was no need for milk in this home, but he got me hooked on his cereal. I plop down on my chair and drum my fingers on the kitchen table. Damien is in the office already. Anabelle is gone. I will survive this. I can order food. My phone rings and startles me from my wayward thoughts. When I catch his name on my display, my heart hammers in my chest.
“Filip.”
“You didn’t tell me how it went?”
“It’s not that we established anything.”
He sighs in desperation and after two inhales of air he asks, “Chloe, how are you?”
“My ankle is sprained. I have no milk to eat your stupid cereal. My roommate is gone, and I don’t want to disturb Damien to ask him to pick some up. And I lost some jobs,” I cry out. “How do you think I am doing?” I sniffle and hang up. There is something about him that makes me want to blurt the truth and not just pretend everything is peachy when it’s not. My phone rings again.
“I am not in the mood,” I shout, not looking to check who is calling.
“Is this how you greet your mother?”
I cringe. What a shitty day.
“Sorry, Mom, I thought someone else was calling.”
“I saw your show. Have you gained weight?”
“Of course not.”
“You should eat less. Your career won’t last if you don’t pay attention to your weight.”
Clutching the phone in my palm causes the wound to reopen, and the definition of insanity pops into my mind: doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.
“How are you, Mom?”
“I left him.”
Translation, the new man left her for a younger model, and she is calling because her funds are zero.
“I will send you some money.”
“Yes, do that and increase the amount over what you usually send. You earn more as a supermodel. Don’t be cheap like your father.”
I shout at my mother and her demands inside my head and my body ripples with the mute, desperate sound my heart lets out, but my answer is cordial as always.
“I will.”
“I’ve seen the picture with you and that handsome billionaire. Grab him fast and give him a baby or two. You won’t find a better one.”
“We’re just friends.”
“You are such a disappointment. Your beauty has been wasted on someone as ungrateful as you.”
“Yes, sorry for that and ruining your career.”
“You should be.”
The pressure in my chest increases, but I refuse to cry. I’ve cried enough over her malicious words. And even though it still hurts, I’ve learned to live with the pain and breathe through it.
“Anything else.”
“No. Until next time.” Translation, you bore me, and I have to find another sponsor, aka boyfriend, who’ll pick up the expensive tab my lifestyle demands.
I lean my hip on the windowsill and stare outside. A sleek car stops and with it my heart speeds in my chest. What is Filip doing here? I tell myself I won’t answer his call, but when the intercom rings I let him in and wait until he strolls out of the elevator carrying two bags of groceries.
“Tell me you looked and knew that it was me, and you don’t answer your intercom without checking.” I roll my eyes at his back as he passes me, and I shut the door.
“No, I was expecting a hoard of men to tend to every one of my whims.”
“Well, the first one has shown up,” he teases.
“What are you doing here?”
“You wanted milk. I brought some.” Why? I glance at the ceiling, sighing. He can’t keep switching from hot to cold. I approach him and note he already poured milk and cereal into two bowls.
“Haven’t you had breakfast?”
“No, I thought we could eat together.”
“Since you brought it, I’ll share.” I bite down a smile and take a seat, a small peace offering. I don’t throw him out, he stops annoying me. He catches my leg and props it on his lap, inspecting the black material around it. He caresses my leg with one hand and eats with the other. I let him, indulging in being taken care of, even though I would die sooner than admit it, to him anyway.
When we finish, he places the bowls in the dishwasher, kisses the top of my head and asks, “Where is your roommate?”
“She’s away at a specialization course for the next two months.”
“Someone should be here for you.”
“Filip, I can take care of myself.”
“I know you can, but still.”
It’s this caring, soft side that peels one layer after another off me.
“I have to be in the office today, but I’ll come back, and we can have lunch?” Say no, I tell myself, instead I nod.
“Any preference?”
“Surprise me?”
I flick through a book, but the pages blur, my thoughts revolving around him, and as one p.m. approaches, I throw it aside and close my eyes. Why am I nervous? When my intercom rings, I bolt upright and hop on one leg. I open the door and worry transforms his face. I catch my image in the mirror, beet red face and a fine sheen of sweat coats my forehead.
He places the bags on the table and before I can shut the door, he scoops me up, and I gasp, “Filip.”
“No more of this. You need to rest.”
“This is bullshit.”
“It’s not. Do you want your ankle to heal properly or not?”
“Of course, I do.”
“Now choose. Either give me a spare key until you are better or call Damien.” He waits, so many emotions passing in his eyes, but it’s the intensity of them that makes me do what I do next. I point at the key holder toward the second row. He plucks the remaining key and tucks it in his pocket.
Once the debate is settled, the unmistakable smell of meat pie invades my nostrils, and I salivate. After propping me at the table, he cuts and offers me a sizable chunk of it, and I chuckle.
“I can’t eat this much.”
“I’ll finish it.”
I end up feeding him most of it. The atmosphere between us feels light, and I catch myself daydreaming. Could it be that two messes create something beautiful, something that works for us? I want him in my life enough to see where this goes.
And that thought accompanies me for the rest of the day. By the time dinner comes, and he enters without knocking, without asking, it’s the perfect metaphor to how he buzzed into my life and my heart.
He scowls when he sees me standing. There are no words as he prowls to me, lifts me up, and slams his lips on mine. He carries me to the bed, and when my back hits the mattress, I shudder at the hunger in his eyes.
“You occupied my headspace all day long, Chloe. A day thinking of the same person every damn second is a long one.”
“Do tell,” I challenge him while I prop myself up on my elbows.
“This, us, whatever fucking madness it is, it’s more than sex.” I want to shout “hallelujah” and ask if he’s a bit slow in the head, but I don’t and revel in him realizing this too.
“Have nothing to say?” he questions, and I retort, “I was wondering when it would hit you too.”
“Yes, well, it did.”
“Filip, let’s take things slow.” His features soften and some color returns. I pat the spot next to me, and he slips his shoes off and sheds his shirt and jacket. His slacks stay, and the image of his lean body with just the traces of muscles has desire igniting inside of me. He places his hand on my chest and caresses the line from my chest to my belly.
“I wanted to fuck you, but then I saw your ankle.”
“I am sure we can find a way around it.”
He nips at my neck. I love the goose bumps he leaves behind with his mouth and fingertips. He slides off my top and rains kisses from the tip of my ear down my neck and shoulder. I suppress a moan. My nipples salute him, and for a second, he pauses everything—his fingers and even his breath. His hand cups my left breast and rubs his thumb over it, the sensation ripples through me, and I want more.
“Filip.”
“Are you wet?”
“I was wet the moment you started kissing me.” He smiles against my neck while his fingers dig into my skin. This need, desire, for each other unbalancing us, subduing us.
“Someone is impatient.” He peels my leggings off me, and I lock my legs around his torso.
“Now, Filip.”
I still gloat over my win when he slams inside of me, and a long moan escapes my lips, and I fist the sheets. He’s relentless. He wraps his arms around me and stills inside of me, filling me to the brink.
“Filip.”
“Feel me, Chloe, I want you to feel me in every hole, in every damn bone, in every cell, because this is what you do to me.” His words, him inside of me, are a maddening euphoria.
“I do,” I rasp, and he kisses me as if my answer pleases him. He tilts my head to his and ravishes my mouth while his fingers rub circles on my clit. The different sensations send me into a lust frenzy.
“This feels so good,” I moan in his mouth, and he swallows the words, as if we fuel the other.
“Come, because I can’t hold it anymore.”
I love his honesty and this, us, right here and now.
“Don’t stop, and I will.”
We find our release at the same time. I shout his name as he shoots his cum inside of me. It’s a fair bargain. When we still, the silence and comfort veil us in.
He interlinks his hands above my belly, and I caress his knuckles as he kisses my cheek.
“I like it like this.”
“This is the post orgasmic you talking.”
“No, it’s the honest me talking.”
***
He hops off the bed while I stare at his defined ass, nodding in appreciation. He snaps his head at me grinning from ear to ear, and I hide my face behind my hands, mortified he caught me.
“Look what I can do,” he urges, and I peer at him through my fingers. He shakes his ass cheeks, and I burst into laughter.
“I can do that too.”
“Next time when I fuck you from behind, show me,” he says as he disappears through the door. My laughter dies on my lips, and I gulp while the prick laughs.
He returns with two bowls of pumpkin soup.
“It’s my favorite,” I admit and smile at him, and his cheeks turn red.
“Good to know.”
And I tell him more, always giving him more pieces of me than he gives of himself. It’s unfair, yet I can’t stop myself.
“My mom used to make this when I was little.”
“What happened?”
“My father cheated with someone younger.”
“I am sorry.”
“Afterward, everything shifted.”
“Yes, after cheating it usually does.”
“Sorry, I . . .”
“It’s not your fault, Chloe. I want you to tell me things and not consider how they might affect me. How I deal with them is my responsibility, not yours.”
“That is wise.” I try to joke the slight tension away, and he rolls his eyes at me and takes a spoonful of soup. Some delicious, yellow liquid remains at the corner of his lips, and on instinct I dab it away with my thumb. He nips at it with his teeth, and a warm sensation shoots through me. I can’t recall ever being like this with anyone.
“This is new for me, but good new,” he says, smiling. It’s the same for me too.
“Thank you, for everything, but you can go if you like.”
“Do you want me to leave?” Hurt laces his words, and I shake my head, afraid if I talk, he will sense how much I don’t want him to go.
“I’ll stay then.” The relief easing the knot in my stomach should be a warning of how he bulldozes himself into my heart, ripping everything apart, just to get inside of me.
He shuffles into the kitchen, doors opening and shutting while I lean back against the headboard and stare at him through the open door.
“Have I fucked you into a coma?” he asks, and I snort laugh as he leans against the door frame.
“You wish.”
“I could try.” He pins me with a stare, half amusement, half determination crinkling the corners of his eyes. Oh, Filip, you ruin me in the best ways, but you can’t sugarcoat it.
“Yes but start after you help me take a bath.”
His eyes sparkle with mischief, and heat creeps up my skin. He gathers me in his arms and places me in the bathtub, my leg with the sprained ankle dangling over the edge. Water fills the tub as he dunks a washcloth, squirts some shower gel on it, and washes my injury. I am lost in him as a hiss parts my lips, and he stops.
“I am fine, Filip.”
Only after my reassurance does he keep going, and I grip the loofah, but before it reaches my skin, he snatches it away.
“If you think I get just the leg while you get to touch all the other places I’d die to get my hands and mouth on, you’re crazy.” I bite the inside of my cheek to suppress my smile.
“You did enough. I can wash myself.”
“I want to. Give me this.” His plea barely above a whisper, as if we both realize things are out of control now. I gulp and tip his face up.
“What will you give me?”
“What do you want, Chloe?” he asks. You, I answer, but only in my mind.
“I don’t know,” I lie.
“Will you tell me when you figure it out?”
The ammunition my answer could provide him, I don’t think so. But maybe if he . . . I shake my hopes and dreams off and silence the stupid voice that would have said if he loves me, I will tell him. I caress his sculpted face, defined jaw, and high cheekbones instead of answering him. He doesn’t seem to mind as he slides next to me, water splashing around us, hitting the floor.
“This is a kid’s bathroom,” he laments.
My rich, spoiled prick. He got under my skin, that’s why the derision lacks when I call him on this.
“I am sure my towel will scratch your spoiled as fuck skin,” I counter, and he lifts my good leg and bites down on my toe, and I hiss.
“Hey.”
“That was mean.”
“It would be impossible for you to deny it.”
“I don’t know anything else.”
“I won’t buy new ones,” I add, and he drops his jaw in faux shock. I giggle and splash water at his smug face. His wealth doesn’t intimidate me anymore. Maybe I am adapting to his world, or it doesn’t matter how much money he has, it’s him and I, and when we’re together, wealth doesn’t matter. And by the end of my career as a supermodel, I will have my own small fortune.
He grabs my bottom and lifts me above the water, ripping me from my thoughts. He dips his head, his tongue lashing my entrance. My body gives in to the exquisite sensation, moaning and gripping the edges. The pleasure he brings courses through me, and when I find his eyes fixed on mine, smiling while he eats me out, he’s never looked sexier. My toes curl, and when he nips at me, the orgasm rips through me. He knows how to use that tongue in more ways than one.
He helps me up, and I catch my image in the mirror, a distinctive glow. I press my head to his shoulder. It’s my after-sex brain that is at fault for my next words.
“Stay the night.”
I freeze, and as if he senses I would retract my invitation, he silences me with a kiss.
His arms wrap around me, and sleep pulls at my eyes until he changes into silk pajamas. Only he would have spare silk pajamas in the trunk of his car. I hold my middle with tears in my eyes, and laughter bubbling from within me. He turns, points at his ass, and calls me one as well.
***
The first morning rays find their way through the window shades. I stretch and find him behind me. A small smile parts my lips. I turn on my side, trailing a line from between his shoulder blades to the dip of his back. He stirs, and I caress his hair, and he stills. Why do I keep caressing him? He keeps his eyes closed, sparing me from having to find excuses for my behavior. My hand glides from his hair to his chest, down his abdomen, and rests on his morning wood.
“Morning,” he says through a grin.
“I see you’re already awake.”
“You have your hand on the evidence of how awake I am.”
“Hmm, clumsy me.” At my answer, he rolls to me. His hair is disheveled, his eyes now have speckles of gold, his full shapely lips, and just a scruff shadowing over his face. Yes, he is gorgeous. He caresses the corners of my lips and dips to kiss me. I meet him halfway. I would always meet him there, as long as he keeps coming toward me.
He devours my lips, his need and desire ignite and race through me. He presses me to him and through feverish kisses says, “I want you like I’ve never wanted anyone before, like I will want no one after. You drive me mad with lust, and fuck, you strip me bare.”
Our clothes fly off, the desperation heavy in the air. He crawls on top of me, and I part my legs. He enters me, the earlier rush replaced by more than a need or urge. Something I can’t pinpoint, but I feel it in my heart. Our eyes lock.
When and how did we go from fucking to making love? Because if this isn’t lovemaking as we worship each other with our eyes, hands, mouths, and every thrust of his hips met by me, then I don’t know what it is.
I close my eyes not to keep him out, that is superfluous anyway, but to hold on to this feeling washing over me, warm, intense, and deep. I reopen my eyes, and he dips his chin and kisses me.
We come together with me whispering his name in his mouth and him above me.
