Damon holds me closer, one hand lightly brushing up and down my side. “Let it out, baby,” he murmurs, “just let it out.”
“I-I-I—” A great heaving breath, tears still streaming down my face. “I c-can’t,” I rasp. “If I let it out, I’ll n-never be able to sh-shove it d-down and l-lock it away a-again.”
“Okay, Red,” he murmurs, that hand running gently along my side. “Okay, baby. That’s okay. Just take your time and breathe. Just breathe,” he repeats, still gentle, saying it over and over again until somehow Icanbreathe, the sobs aren’t hitching quite so fiercely through my lungs, the tears are slowing, no longer cascading down my cheeks.
Then the crying jag is done and embarrassment is creeping in.
No.
It’sragingin.
As though sensing that shame building in me—or more likely, feeling my body growing stiffer, he shifts me, turning me so I’m straddling his lap.
I gasp, shock and horror warring…and then desire winning out.
How many times have I dreamed about him holding me close, about me sitting on him like this—only doing it nakedwhile I ride his hard cock and bring us both no little amount of pressure.
Though, my fantasies always end with him over me, staring deeply into my eyes as he pounds into me.
And how fucked up am I?
Thinking about his dick after telling him about Hiller.
I’m shattered, broken, tainted?—
No.
That’s not me.
Something bad was done to me, but that doesn’t mean I’ve stopped living?—
Doesn’t it?
The cold, calculating voice inside me is sharp and angry, jabbing deep, choosing the most sensitive, vulnerable spots.
Because I worry that it might be true.
I have my dream job. I have the team. I have a house and a car and food in the fridge. So, yeah, I have a life, and even if it’s not completely living up to the fantasy that I had as a kid, as a teenager, even as a rose-colored-glasses wearing college graduate, even if I’m not living exactly how I expected all those years ago, I’m old enough to know that reality isn’t fantasy.
Old enough to know that I’m far luckier than so many people in my world.
“What are you thinking?” he murmurs, running the backs of his knuckles along my cheek.
Maybe it’s because it’s late.
Maybe the tears ripped the shield away from my body and I have no hope of hiding myself from this man, not any longer.
Maybe it’s the quiet way he asked or that kryptonite of gentle in his eyes.
Maybe it’s just that I’m tired and can’t continue to fight, can’t keep this all inside any longer.
No matter the reason, I don’t keep my thoughts to myself.
“That I’m lucky,” I whisper.
His eyes flare, anger edging into the blue-gold depths.
I keep talking before his temper can take over.
