I wrinkle my nose. “That sounds incredibly invasive and gross.”
“It is.”
He says it casually, as if he's telling me the weather. Somehow, that's even sadder—to be so used to people viewing his body like that, it doesn't even faze him.
“You’d be surprised how many are convinced I’m packing a fucking tree trunk.”
My tongue feels two sizes too large as I mumble, “How disappointing that you aren’t.”
He pauses and quirks a brow. “Darling, are you implying my cock disappoints you?”
Oh, God.
This conversation took a turn, and my brain is only functioning at half its capacity.
I have no fucking idea how to answer that and not dig myself a deeper hole. So instead, I drop my knees and submerge myself into the water, up to my shoulders.
I choke on a groan, instantly feeling panic claw up my throat. Every inhale feels like ice, and it freezes my muscles, preventing me from moving.
Dread swims toward me, his eyes sharp as he watches me, as if to ensure I don’t drown, though amusement colors them, too.
“Did you seriously just throw yourself back into a panic attack to avoid answering that?” he questions, one corner of his mouth curling.
“No?”
I sound like an idiot, and I feel like one, too, because I definitely am on the cusp of another panic attack.
He shakes his head but swallows his amusement and grabs my hands, pulling me into him until a foot separates us.
“The most important thing about keeping yourself afloat is doing it in a way that doesn’t exhaust you. The quicker you tire yourself out, the more likely you are to drown.”
I nod, but the only part my brain latches on to is ‘drown.’ My breaths come out short and heavy.
“First, you need to relax your breathing. Inhale deeply. It makes you more buoyant.”
My first attempt fails, and so do my second and third. It feels as if my throat is the size of a pea, and I can’t suck in enough.
“Rev, focus on me. Try again.”
My gaze shoots to him, and the next several attempts also fail. But the longer I stare into his eyes, the easier they become, until eventually, I’m able to draw in a full breath.
“That’s it,” he encourages softly. “Now, you’re going to point your toes, and when you move your feet, you’re going to pretend like you’re peddling a bike.”
The second I lift my feet from the floor, I sink, causing me to instantly panic and put my feet down again. I didn’t even drop an inch, but my heart pounds against my chest as if I went completely under.
“Hey, hey, relax, baby. I’ll help keep you afloat for now. I won’t let you go under,” he soothes, dropping my hands to grip my waist instead.
My nod is rushed and choppy, and I try to even out my breathing again. Another several minutes pass before I accomplish that, and evenmore before I convince myself to lift my feet again. The initial dip has me tensing, but, true to his word, Dread bears my weight. He holds me at arm’s length, giving me room to pedal my feet.
“Good,” he murmurs. “For your arms, you’re going to make a figure eight motion. It’s called sculling, creating upward pressure. Keep your hands flat and relaxed, and move them out and then in.”
I do as he says, focusing on his voice as he corrects me on the motion a few times until he seems satisfied.
“I’m not going to let you go, but I’m going to loosen my hold, okay? I want you to keep moving your legs and arms until it starts to feel more natural.”
“Don’t let go,” I rush out despite myself. He already said he wouldn’t, but my body refuses to trust that just yet.
“I won’t, baby,” he reassures gently. “I just want you to feel your own weight and get accustomed to it.”
