An odd pride ignites at the words, not fading entirely even when I pour the cold water on top that she’s used to saying things like that. She probably compliments every man who passes through her door.
Then I have a twinge at thinking such a thing when I don’t know. The one occasion she invited me to ask about her profession, I was too absorbed in what I needed from her to take the opportunity.
She tips her pelvis upwards, and I sink farther inside. This time there’s no handbrake on my shoulder, no suggestion she wants me to stop.
All my focus circles down to a single part of my anatomy, where I’m joined to her, the sensation overwhelming.
There’s a sound from her, a long sigh that could equally be pain or pleasure. My mind takes it the way it needs it, turning it into a gasp of fear. I draw back, the relief of sinking back inside her worth the effort. The grip of her walls around me is so tight it’s like she doesn’t want to release me, like she would cling hold of me forever if I let her.
And I want to let her.
But the other urges come screaming out of nowhere. I thought I was holding them back, tempering them, but that’s a fairy tale I let myself believe because it’s so much easier than facing the truth.
That I can’t control them.
That I can’t control myself.
One second, two, and it’s close to being too late when I pull back, pull out, throw myself halfway across the floor, stumbling, my feet tangling, my jeans slung low where she pushed them when she took me out and it takes all my concentration to hike them back up, cover myself, turn away from the girl I left lying sprawled and open for me on the couch.
The girl who must be confused. The girl who’ll hate me for rejecting her because even if she pretends it’s okay, I know she’ll feel it and if I couldn’t explain what was happening before we got this far, then how the fuck am I meant to explain what’s going on inside my head right now.
“Trent? Are you okay?”
“Just…” I put my hand to my chest where there’s an uncomfortable pressure that grows with every second. “Give me a minute,” I whisper, sliding my back down the wall until my arse hits the ground.
I bury my face in my hands, so I don’t have to look at her.
“I’m turning on the light, okay?”
A croak that might be a yes, might be a no, comes out of me, unable to give a more coherent answer at this stage. All I am is the snarling warring selves within me, each intent on their opposing demands.
The world brightens, and I hear her closing the gap between us.
Rosa kneels beside me and lays a soothing hand on the top of my head. “Can you tell me what’s happening?”
I croak out a broken laugh.
She switches position, sitting companionably beside me, her shoulder touching mine. “I should apologise,” she whispers in the tone of a confession. “It’s been a week or longer since anyone bothered to vacuum the floor in here, so if you have a wealth of crumbs clinging to you when you stand up, that’s why.”
I snort, shaking my head, still afraid to peel my hands away from my eyes to see the outside world.
“You want a drink of anything?”
“I’m not much of a drinker.” I try to rouse the will to stand but it doesn’t take. “Guess I should go.”
“You’re meant to be defending me and Finley from terrible men,” she reminds me with a tiny cackle.
“And you’re meant to be insisting you don’t need any help. You’re fine. Everything’s fine.”
She grabs hold of my upper arm, turning to press her face against it to stifle her burst of laughter. “Oh, you think you know me, eh?”
I finally work out how to lower my hands. “No. I don’t think I’m close to knowing you at all.” I wait a breath but don’t let myself pause for longer. “I wanted to hurt you. When I—” I wave my hand instead of finishing the sentence, not sure how I’d word it even if I could.
“But you didn’t.”
“But I wanted to.”
“But you didn’t.” She nudges me with her hip, then scrambles to her feet, holding a hand back towards me. “Come on. If you want to sit, the couch is far more comfortable.”
