She removes her hands from her face, and when she does, I say, “Let me photograph you.”
Lying there, she doesn’t respond one way or the other, so I bring the camera back up to my eye and snap a few quick shots of her. Hair splayed around her face, flushed cheeks, and a soft expression on her face.
“Thanks,” I say when I’m done capturing her face and then shift to the side of her, holding the camera back to my face.
“What are you doing?”
“Giving myself something to work on,” I mutter before adding, “Bend your legs up, babe.”
She does without question, and I use my hand to maneuver them to my liking until they are at the perfect angle. The clicks of the shutter are the only sounds that fill the room as she lies there, watching me intently every time I shift my eyes to hers. I’m glad she’s comfortable with this and not so tense like she was the last time we did this.
I move to set the camera on the nightstand and then back to her, easing my weight on top of her. She runs her hands along my face, drawing me down to kiss her. We let ourselves get lost in one another, moving in a way I have only done with her, and when her shirt hits the floor with mine, I drop my head to her chest. Her arms encircle my head as I cover her in my mouth, finding that the feel of her lace bras are a turn-on I never expected.
Her skin is soft beneath my hand as I run it down her side and to her leg as I tighten my grip because she feels that damn good. When she grazes her lips up my neck, she sends chills down my arms. Our breaths begin to run deep, and my need for her strengthens as I slide my hand in from her hips, over the waistband of her boxers, and down between her legs, cupping the heat of her.
“Stop,” she snaps and jerks my hand away, startling me.
“Babe?”
“Just . . . don’t,” she whispers.
I accept all of her hesitations, but it still hurts when she rejects my touches. Her eyes are closed when I lie down beside her, pulling her hip over so that she’s facing me.
“Please look at me,” I urge in a hushed voice, and when she does, I go with transparent honesty and say, “I want to touch you.”
“I know. I just . . .” I see the worry in her eyes and the lines in her forehead.
“You can tell me anything, babe. I’ll never judge you.”
She takes her time as I run my hand up her arm and into her hair. When she does speak, it’s strained as she confesses, “He’s the only one that’s touched me there.”
I work hard to not get upset. To stay calm so that I can talk to her about this because we can’t keep avoiding it. I know this is the last thing she probably wants to discuss, but it has to be done, so I choose my words carefully, telling her, “You know that I would never hurt you.”
“I know. It isn’t that.”
“Then tell me what it is. I need to understand.”
She tucks her chin down, and when I lift it back up with my fingers, I explain, “I need you to talk to me about this because I need to know.”
“It’s embarrassing,” she admits quietly.
“There is nothing for you to be embarrassed about, babe. But I’m gonna be honest with you—it hurts when you push me away because I don’t want you to be scared of me.”
“I’m not scared of you.”
“Then what?”
After she lets out a slow sigh, she finally reveals, “It makes me feel dirty.”
My forehead gently falls against hers, and I close my eyes, shaking my head. With my hands on her back, I feel the soft heaves, letting me know she’s crying. It infuriates me that he did this to her. That this is how she views intimacy. The last thing I would ever expect or want her to feel when she’s with me like this is dirty. Knowing that makes me sick to my stomach.
“Listen to me,” I say when I pull my head back to look at her. “That guy was a piece of shit, we both know that. He’s a sick f**k, and yeah, what he did and how he touched you was dirty. The disgust is beyond that. But that isn’t what this is. That isn’t us,” I try to explain to her. I pull her in tight, continuing, “I want to touch you and feel you. He made that something ugly for you, and I hate him for that. That he could take that away from us.”
“I’m sorry,” she cries.
“You have nothing—nothing—to be sorry for,” I scold. “He did this, not you. The way I want to touch you is nothing like that. I love you, and I want to touch you like this because it’s a way for me to feel close to you. It’s a way for me to love you and to make you feel that too.”
The tears run down the side of her face as she responds, “I want to give that to you. I do. I feel awful that I can’t, but I’m trying. I need you to know that I am trying.”
Wiping her face, I say, “I know you are. I see it. I’m not blaming you, but we need to talk about this so that I can understand.”
“I hate this,” she confesses and then buries her head in my chest.
“I know you do, and if I could do something I would. I just don’t know what that would be. But I love you, even the parts of you that you think are ugly. I love it all.”
Chapter Thirty-one
“What the hell is this, Mark?” I call out from the kitchen when I open the box with the cake.
He’s on the couch, drinking a beer with Jase, and responds nonchalantly, “You put me in charge of the cake, so I got her a cake.”