Chapter Fifty-One Soundtrack: Don't Blame Me by Taylor Swift

hi! author voice here. in this chapter, and really throughout the book, ellie indirectly describes her anxiety in self-critical and derogatory ways (here, she describes herself as being 'abnormal'). that's representative of where she is in her healing journey, but i want to be really clear that there's nothing abnormal about experiencing anxiety. while ellie is making a lot of progress, anxiety will always be part of her life, but we hope that by the end she'll stop beating herself up about it. just wanted to clarify that language in this chapter in case it's inadvertently upsetting to any readers (love you all lots).

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A normal person might think there was nothing to worry about after the win. I have literally just achieved the career milestone I wrote about in my journal at eight years old. Nas has already turned on my phone to add 'BAFTA-winning Producer' to my email signature, which made me stand up and pour myself a drink to avoid crying in front of him.

A normal person wouldn't be worrying about anything.

But, as my mother always reminds me, my brain isn't normal. All I can think right now, other than 'Don't cry in front of him', is 'How do you start having sex?'.

Obviously, I understand the anatomy. Anatomy is not a problem. But now I need to walk over to him - my colleague - my famous, movie star colleague - and initiate sex. Ideally while seeming cool and chill and not at all like I'm too invested or like I've thought about this every night for months, maybe years.

No big deal.

I swallow a huge gulp of coffee. Coffee will surely help my racing heart.

He's lounging on the edge of the couch, with that catlike grace that claims every space he occupies. Maybe he's at ease here, or maybe he wants to set me at ease, or maybe there are deeper levels to this game of ours. Maybe he's playing for something else entirely.

With all these rational and completely realistic thoughts, I sit beside him.

'Hey,' I tell him, in a very normal, not-nervous voice.

'Hey.' If he rolls his eyes a little, who could blame him?

His eyes flicker to my bare legs. I hope he notices that I shaved. I'm watching his face, though, seeing his gaze flash and his eyebrows tighten. He's hovering right on the edge of something.

'Hey,' I say again, and before he can interrupt, I slide across the sofa and perch on his lap.

His entire body tenses. It's almost funny.

'This okay?' I breathe. He nods, frantically. His eyes still haven't met mine: they're hovering around my collarbone, flickering staccato back and forth, like he's reading a vital document. His brain is extraordinary. I wish I could read those thoughts, too.

His eyes are dark, darker than I've ever seen them. Slowly, he touches my knee, and I tense without meaning to, until we're both perched on the brink, scared to breathe, scared to scare each other.

He runs his hands up my leg, beneath my skirt, to round against my hips and grip me tightly.

And then, without looking up, his lips drop to my collarbone. My collarbone has been kissed before. I'm sure it has. But now, my whole body is leaning into the feeling, my eyes closing, lips parting, breathing a ragged gasp.

His teeth scrape my neck.

It's enough to make me whimper, and I know he feels it because he does it again, and again. Only when it's painful do I realise how tightly he's gripping my hips - gripping them because they're rolling, grinding against him, over and over, until I'm sighing.

'Eleanor,' he murmurs, 'Let's go to bed.'

'Yes,' I gasp. I'm about to stand when his grip stops me. He hasn't stopped touching me, like he's afraid that I have to be held to be believed: like I'll vanish entirely.

Wordlessly, he wraps his other arm around the small of my back and lifts me until he's standing and my legs wrap around him, like a sloth. I squeak. It's very undignified.

He chuckles, dark and throaty, but doesn't release me as he walks towards my bedroom. I feel his hips sliding against me with every step. This would probably be the sexiest thing that's ever happened to me if I didn't feel so fat. Surely, he must be thinking it - I know I am - but when I think he'll protest, he buries his face in my neck and kisses me again. He's not even sweating.

I wish I could stop worrying. After all, this will probably never happen to me again, and all I can think is how much I'm risking.

As if he can feel my thoughts, he presses me against my bedroom wall, without letting my feet touch the ground, and kisses me. The sharpness of his teeth, the warmth of his chest... I'm lost in him now, in this moment, and it's enough to remind me how much I want this. I want this so much.

I can feel his breathing hitch, stop, and he sighs into my mouth. Without a word, he pulls us away from the wall and carries us into my bedroom. Thank God, I've cleaned. No dirty socks on the floor. Not that he's inspecting it.

I'm expecting him to drop me like a parcel on the bed, but instead, he slowly pivots and sits down, leaving me on top. For the first time, he looks me in the eyes.

'Yes?' he asks.

'Yes,' I tell him and point at my bedside table. Twenty condoms are piled up there.

He laughs so hard that I worry the moment is over. But when his hips shift beneath me, I discover that for him, the moment is very much still here.

'Well then,' he says when he's caught his breath. 'I guess we'd better take this off.'

Gently, firmly, he unbuttons my blouse. His fingers only linger for a moment, as he reveals the blue lace of my bra, but it doesn't stop him for long. Soon, my top is off, and with a careful shimmy, I slide my skirt over his legs too. He doesn't wait for me to ask before he pulls his T-shirt over his head. With a deft manoeuvre - I try not to wonder who he practised with - he slides his trousers down, sliding me up against his chest so that he doesn't lose contact with me, not for a single moment.

This is all quite straightforward and surprisingly organised. I admire our teamwork.

'Eleanor,' he murmurs.

'Yes?'

'What will it take to make you stop thinking?'

'What do you-' But his fingers slip beneath my pants and it turns out it takes very little, in fact, to make me stop thinking. When he's murmuring into my neck, nipping at my ears, stroking along my side, and he's pressing a finger inside me, and then two, all I can feel is the tightness, the warmth of him. All I want is this, now, forever.

He makes a soft, happy sound, and it nearly tips me over the edge.

'You're so wet.'

I try to reply but he's found something inside that makes my knees collapse. He makes that noise again.

Somewhere, miles away, I try to reach for him, to touch him too, but he bats my hands away easily. 'Eleanor,' he says, 'I think I'm going to die if I'm not inside you. Can you please pass me a condom?'

I should have known he'd be chatty.

He removes his hand for a few agonising seconds, just long enough for me to grab a condom, and finally I can look down at the length of him, straining against me now that he's slipped down his boxers. My fingers tremble a little as I slide the condom on and pull my pants to the side.

For one awful second, I realise it's not too late to stop. We're about to cross the Rubicon.

For one awful second, he sees this hesitation on my face and knows exactly what it means.

But then my hands are on his chest, I'm pulling myself into his shoulders, and it only takes one careful shift to feel him pressing against me again.

I lower myself and we both gasp.

He feels so good. I knew he would, but I didn't know it would be like this. I didn't know that I'd feel every twitch of him, every breath against my hair, as he slid inside me. I didn't know that his fingers would grip tightly enough to bruise. I didn't know that when he finally bottomed out inside me, we'd both cry out, in pleasure and in pain, and those would feel the same.

I stay for a moment and then I move.

I've never been good on top. I'm not very good now. But I get to see him, every inch of him, and I get to watch him respond to me, and that matters more. I get to feel him shudder as I speed up. I get to move so that he hits that spot, over and over. Until finally, he gets too frustrated and begins moving too, thrusting into me, so that I can only grip his shoulders and feel.

Like always, we are pushing each other to see who breaks first. Like always, I am desperate and furious and so aware of every movement he makes that I might explode—and then I do, collapsing around him, and he gasps against my neck. I thought I had orgasmed before. I have never orgasmed like this. I have never felt anything like this.

When the aftershocks finally wear off, his length in me becomes more painful than pleasurable, and I peel myself off. But I can't face the walk to the bathroom. I guess he can't either, because he wraps around me and holds me until we fall asleep.