It Ends with Us

What?
My heart feels like it begins beating in reverse.
Why does he keep asking me this?
His fingers are still moving inside of me, his eyes still look like they want
me. 
But his hand.
The hand that’s wrapped in my hair begins to tug harder
and I wince.

---

“Ryle,” I whisper, keeping my voice calm, even though I’m beginning to
shake. “That hurts.”
His fingers stop moving, but his gaze never leaves mine. He slowly pulls
his fingers out of me and then brings his hand up around my throat,
squeezing gently. His lips meet mine and his tongue dives inside my
mouth. I take it, because I have no idea what’s going through his head
right now and I pray I’m overreacting.
I can feel him hard against his jeans as he presses into me. But then he
pulls back. His hands leave me entirely as he flattens his back against the
refrigerator, scraping his eyes over my body like he wants to take me right
here in the kitchen. My heart begins to calm down. 
I’m overreacting.
He reaches beside him, next to the stove, and he picks up a newspaper.
It’s the same newspaper he showed me earlier, with the awards article
printed in it. He holds it up, then tosses it toward me. “Did you get a
chance to read that yet?”
I blow out a breath of relief. “Not yet,” I say, my eyes falling to the
article.
“Read it out loud.”
I glance up at him. I smile, but my stomach is anxious. There’s
something about him right now. The way he’s acting. I can’t put my finger
on it.
“You want me to read the article?” I ask. “Right now?”
I feel odd, sitting on my kitchen counter half naked, holding a
newspaper. He nods. “I’d like you to take off your shirt first. 
Then
read it
out loud.”
I stare at him, trying to gauge his behavior. Maybe the scotch has made
him extra frisky. A lot of times when we make love, it’s as simple as making
love. But occasionally, our sex is wild. A little dangerous, like the look in
his eyes right now.
I set the paper down, pull off my shirt, and then pick the paper back
up. I start reading the article out loud, but he takes a step forward and
says, “Not the whole thing.” He flips the paper over where it starts in the
middle of the article and he points to a sentence. “Read the last few
paragraphs.”
I look down, even more confused this time. But whatever will get us past
this and into the bed . . .

---

“The business with the highest number of votes should come as no
surprise. The iconic Bib’s on Marketson opened in April of last year,
quickly becoming one of the highest rated restaurants in the city,
according to TripAdvisor.”
I stop reading and look up at Ryle. He has poured himself more scotch
and he’s swallowing a sip of it. “Keep reading,” he says, nudging his head
at the paper in my hand.
I swallow heavily, the saliva in my mouth growing thicker by the second.
I try to control the trembling of my hands as I continue reading. “The
owner, Atlas Corrigan, is a two-time award-winning chef and also a United
States Marine. It’s no secret what the acronym for his highly successful
restaurant, Bib’s, stands for: 
Better In Boston
.”
I gasp.
Everything is better in Boston
.
I clench my stomach, trying to keep my emotions under control as I
keep reading. “But when interviewed regarding his most recent award, the
chef finally revealed the true history of the meaning behind the name. ‘
It’s
a long story
,’ Chef Corrigan stated. ‘
It was an homage to someone who had a