Ch. 18

I've never written a story with a cheater in it, and I'm not quite sure how you all are handling it compared to my other stories. But.. don't hate Sam. Puh-lease.. don't hate Sam. That's all I ask. :)

AND.. after half a night, the vote has spoken for itself. :/

Sam's POV

He stares at me before walking inside, leaving the door open. I follow, closing it behind me only to find him no where. I walk into the living room, which is dark, and find him sitting on the couch bent forward with his hands on his knees, staring at nothing in particular.

"Marc?" I ask, but he doesn't respond.

I walk around, sitting down on the coffee table in front of him, feeling very small and insignificant.

"What do you mean you fucked up?" He asks in an eerily calm voice.

"Marc, I love you. So, so, so, so much. You know that, right?"

"What did you do, Samantha?" He asks in a tone that feels much like the one my mother uses.

"Do you want to know like reasonings, or do you just want it short and sweet?" I ask, trying my hardest to put this off. I'm scared because I don't know how he's going to take it, or to react. He could not want anything to do with me, and rightfully so. What scares me even more is I'm not sure what reaction I want; I'm not sure if I want him to give me a second chance, or throw me out on the streets.

"Like ripping off a bandaid," he snarls, reminding me of the saying we always use toward one anther, making me feel like the worst piece of shit person in the world. I sigh, bracing myself for a nasty response.

"I slept with Sid," I murmur in a barely audible whisper while shutting my eyes, not wanting to see his reaction. I sit there for about 10 seconds before looking up into his burning eyes. He's absolutely livid. He gets up and starts pacing around the room, almost for so long that I don't know if I should just get up and leave or not.

"How long ago?" he prompts, never once standing still. And this I know will be the big kicker right here... I have every right to be treated poorly I keep reminding myself.

"A couple nights ago," I cringe, waiting and gauging his reaction.

"Que l'enfer, Sam? Comment pourriez-vous me faire ca!" He yells, switching to his native tongue just like he always does when he's frustrated, while knocking a vase off of the table he's close to. He then turns his attention to the chair next to him and hurls it across the room. Unfortunately for me, I can't understand anything he's saying. He recognizes this and looks at me with condescending eyes. "You told me you never felt anything for him. That you didn't feel anything for him in here," he continues while reaching for his chest, anger replaced by a painful expression only for a glimpse second.

"I don't," I start, but then know that isn't completely true. "Or I didn't, I don't know," I cry out before getting up and trying to walk towards him. "I'm so sorry I did this to you Marc, you've been there for me for so many different things," I add while reaching out for him, only for him to shy away from me.

"What do you want?" he simply asks.

"What?"

"What. Do. You. Want. Sam?" he reiterates, looking at me intensely. "What do you want?!" he practically shouts across the room after I don't respond.

"I... I love you, Marc," I tell him, starting to cry, because even though I have all these emotions in my head, it is a true statement. I do love Marc. So much. But suddenly, I'm doubting everything I've ever done. I see a glimmer of hope flash through his eyes and I see his mood lighten a little, but not enough to completely ease my feeling of anxiety.

He walks toward me then, not at a slow pace, but at a hungry pace until he presses his lips to mine, momentarily stealing my breath away, just like he always does. He forcefully backs me up until I'm up against the back of the couch, which he picks me up and puts me on. He takes my shirt off, throwing it to the side before his lips work their way down my neck.

"He never touches you again," he states, almost painfully holding into my wrist. "Do you understand me?"

I mutely nod my head, waiting for his next move. As if predicted, he reaches for the top button of my jeans and undoes it before my panties follow suit. I've never seen Marc act this way before, but it has me more than a little turned on. He undoes his pants, sending them to the floor before he rips me off the couch and carries me into the adjacent bedroom before tossing me onto the bed, his body quickly following mine.

His movements are forceful and rigid, taking my body to the extreme measures he's learned to reach so long ago. My body is reacting to his just as it should; he's doing all the right things. But his harsh movements have me thinking of a much more gentle touch, his controlling nature making me think of a much more giving gesture, and much more importantly, his dark, brooding eyes have me thinking of a lighter, caramel colored pair.