Claimed

It happened to me once. On that frightful night. And the men there called me disgusting, called me a whore, all little words aimed at decimating my self–esteem. 

Their words worked though. 

Brad’s words ‘you are nothing but Rhett’s bitch‘ ate me up for a whole two weeks. 

Right now, I’m standing in front of a man who called me a slut a few minutes ago. 

It was unintentional sure but that doesn’t mean it 

didn’t sting. Like how his words sting a little. 

sometimes. 

Except Vicious; cruel, dangerous, a million times scarier than Brad isn’t looking at me like a whore. or a slut after I told him my story and maybe that’s the reason why I’m standing beneath a showerhead with him. 

Slate dark eyes size me up, take my five feet in and impatience leaks at his seams. 

I’m not like the women he dates. Probably. 

Maybe Okay Fin not like a solid ten when it comes to looks but my self–esteem and my dignity are straight in the gutter. 

I peed myself 

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I hid 

I don’t give a hoot right now if I look like a hobo from the street. 

“Need help with the dress?” he asks, my knees. 

buckle harder. 

“Yes, please.” 

“Hold on.” 

And I hold on. 

I hold on to these broad shoulders of his and hug them tight because I’m afraid if I let go, I’ll fall. 

Fall to despair. 

Disappoint my baby. 

Let Brad, Rhett and those monsters win. 

“Are you going to tear this one in half too?” I ask trying to release the tension that is as thick as his 

head. 

He leans down, his cheek, the one covered with at dark stubble grazes my cheek and I shiver. 

His fingertips, cold, terrific, definitely colder than 

the Arctic, find the zip to the dress. 

The one that is hidden by my hair and he is 

forced to swipe the hair from my back to access it better. 

“Do you want me to tear it in half?” 

“No.” 

“Then I won’t“, he promises and I bite that promise with big hungry teeth. 

With as much dexterity as a brute man like him. shouldn’t have, he slides the zip slowly and torturously down my back revealing patches and patches of my definitely stinking skin. 

The dress pools around my ankles, it almost feels like déjà vu from the other night. 

Yet today he is not angry. 

He is understanding. 

He is gentle. 

He pities me. 

I raise my head. 

My eyes lunge at his dark ones. 

“Take the bra off and the panties.” 

His voice is low, commanding, dripping sexiness, oozing that ruggedness to it that would make the entire population of women start a third world 

war. 

Being naked in front of him? 

Yeah, I’m too ashamed, too cowardly to say no to 

He carried me when I