“Which means he can take the gloves off, and go after what he really wants, and that’s you.” She tilts her head to one side. “So, same question, what is he really to you?”
Again, my cheeks redden, making her grin. Before she can jump to a wrong conclusion, I try to put my thoughts into words. “Short’s an amazing man. Just look what he’s done for us. And I’m not blind, he’s very attractive. Hundreds of women probably want to offer themselves to him on a platter.”
Giving me a sly look, she says, “Let’s start with something small. Have you ever wondered what it would be like to kiss him?”
“I have not!” I refute sharply, though now that she’s put that idea in my head, my thoughts do start to wander in that direction. I’ve never been kissed before. How would such a caress feel? Would Short’s lips be soft or hard when they met mine?
As if she can read my mind, she chuckles softly, then sobers. “Oh, Bronwyn, there’s a wealth of good experiences waiting for you if you could only trust him. Short wouldn’t think of claiming you if he didn’t want to give you the world. Please don’t close your mind off to the possibility. And I’m not saying you should force the issue, just let whatever may happen, happen naturally.”
I frown. She’s certainly given me some food for thought. Including intimating the claiming which Short referred to so casually, had far greater meaning for him.
“Hon, what happened to you was so fuckin’ awful, I don’t really have a word to describe it. Would you listen to me if I suggested you get professional help? Therapy?”
I’d been thinking that earlier. “I have thought about it. I know it will help me to help Trip if he talks to someone qualified.”
Her eyes narrow in sympathy. “As should you, yourself. Keeping it all bottled up in your head isn’t doing much good either. You’re ashamed of what happened, aren’t you? But you know what? You’re not the one who should be taking the blame for anything. You’re a victim.” I turn my eyes to her. “And before you start thinking I’m saying you’re weak, I’m definitely not. What were you expected to do at eight years old? Your dad controlled you. The one person you should have been able to look up to and trust betrayed you in the worst way possible. There was nothing you could have done to prevent what happened to you, and nothing you did encouraged it. But you proved you’re not weak, you’re strong, when you finally said enough is enough, and brought Trip along with you.”
My voice is barely above a whisper. “For years, I ignored that I had a child.”
“And no one would ever fucking blame you. You were, and probably still are, suffering PTSD from the terrible birthing experience you went through. In the most perfect environment,not every woman, even if she’s in a loving relationship, immediately bonds with their baby. At that age? Of course, you wanted to bury the experience. You know what, Bron? I think you’re amazing, and you should give yourself more credit than you do. You stood up when it counted, and got your son out of there, before he could suffer the same traumatic experiences you yourself went through.” She gives me a grin. “You might have been a victim, but you really are the fucking hero in this story.”
Hero. That’s what Short had said. I can’t imagine when there’d come a time I could believe it.
Her phone pings, and her face alights as she reads the text sent to her. “Sorry, Bron, the sauce is made and simmering. All you’ve got to do is cook some spaghetti when you want to eat, and throw the garlic bread into the oven.” Her mouth quirks. “Saint’s calling, and I sort of made a promise to him if he got out of church early.” From the way she blushes, inexperienced as I am, I suspect I know what kind of offer she’d made.
My mind can’t compute how eagerly she seems to be looking forward to it. See? Wired differently.
After she offers an awkward hug, which I accept but stand stiffly, since I’m a stranger to physical displays of affection, I show her to the door and close it behind her.
Then I pause, with my back to the wall as thoughts filter through my head. I wish I were just the nervous virgin Short originally expected, then maybe I could allow myself to act on these alien feelings just being in his presence summons up. I’d then be able to let him guide me in a new physical activity. If only it were a fear of the unknown I was dealing with.
I know too much about the feel of a man’s dick moving inside me. Enough, I never want to experience that again. Or, could it be, one day in the future, I might want to try? To experience the pleasure Pippa was talking about. Her talk has maybe crackeda door ajar, leaving it open to the possibility. If I’m ever brave enough to take it.
