Pretty

pretty

She looked away from the mirror and back at him. That was it, wasn’t it?

He arched an eyebrow at her. “Figure out what’s wrong?”

She bit her lip. “I don’t feel pretty.”

“Really?” His words were smooth as satin. “Is that all? I can fix that.” He snaked his arms around her and pulled her tight against his body, her hip jutting into his pelvis. With one hand he brushed the hair back from the nape of her neck, leaned in close, and started sucking on her neck.

Her brows furrowed and she made a face. “No.” She pushed him away, shaking her head. She crossed her arms, putting up a shield between her and him. “How is that supposed to help?”

His head cocked sideways. “Lets you know you’re desirable,” he said matter-of-factly. “That I want you… that I think you’re, well, pretty.” A crooked smile turned the corners of his mouth up awkwardly. “Hot, actually.”

She only shook her head. “No,” she said again. The hot burn of a salty tear threatened to spill out of the corner of her eye. “I don’t feel pretty. And you’re not going to change that.” She hopped back onto the bed, letting her knees hang over the edge while her hands gripped the sides so tightly her knuckles showed white. “I’m tired,” she said quietly. “So tired. I feel so empty inside. I feel dirty.” He opened his mouth but she shook her head at him again. “I didn’t feel this way yesterday,” she went on. “Yesterday was a good day. I don’t know what happened. Call it hormones. Call it a late night. Call it whatever.” She shut her eyes so she couldn’t see him anymore.

“But I just don’t feel pretty.”

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