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I feel something take hold of my jaw, and I flinch, recoiling so Theo loses his hold on me. I snap my eyes open to remind myself of where I am, then just as quickly scold myself for letting my mind wander. Theo pulls away, wary, regarding me carefully. ‘You’ve never done that before,’ he whispers, his brow becoming heavy. ‘You’ve never startled when I’ve touched you. Why now, Izzy? Where were your thoughts?’
I fall into my shell, not liking his probing questions or looks, and roll over, getting up from the bed. My instinct is to flee. Fight or flee. It’s always been flee. Fighting never paid off. It just resulted in extreme physical scars to accompany the mental scars. Whether I’ve fled by shutting my mind down, blanking it all out, or by physically running, it was always flee.
I stride across the room to the bathroom, coming to a startled stop when Theo rounds me and fills the door, a palm braced on each side of the frame to block my way. I stare at his chest, my hands nervously twiddling the end of my robe’s tie.
‘Share with me,’ he says gently. ‘Please, Izzy.’
I square my shoulders and look up at him, filling myself with fake resolve. ‘What about you? Will you share, too?’
‘You don’t need to hear of my crimes.’ Theo’s tone suggests I really don’t, and my fortitude wavers as I step away from him.
‘And you don’t need to hear of my tragedies,’ I counter with grit that I’m really not feeling. I would love to offload every tiny detail of my horrid past. To stop hiding it, to relieve the pressure of the secrets. To face it head-on and find some kind of complete closure. But I’m scared now, more than ever. He’ll hate me as much as I hated myself, and I wouldn’t blame him.
‘Who are you?’ Theo asks, keeping me in place with a steely gaze. ‘Why aren’t you on social media?’
I suck in air. What? ‘You’ve looked me up? Why would you do that?’
‘Don’t tell me you haven’t Googled me.’
My hesitation is a sign of my guilt. ‘For what use it was, yes.’
‘What’s your story, Izzy White?’
‘What’s yours, Theo Kane?’ I retort.
He smiles a little in understanding and drops his hands from the doorframe, letting them hang by his side. I can see his chest pumping in time to the feel of mine. All this delving into my past, albeit unproductive for Theo, is challenging me. I’ve thought about it more since I met him than I have since running away. I don’t want to think about it. Ever.
‘I’m a man most are wary of,’ he says quietly, studying me closely as he speaks.
He must realize that he’s telling me something I already know. ‘Why are they wary?’
‘Because they’re scared.’
‘To touch you,’ I say, and he nods. ‘Why can’t they touch you?’
His jaw pulses a little, and I see with perfect clarity how much effort it’s taking to tell me, which only leaves me increasingly worried. Even just talking about his phobia stokes his temper. ‘I don’t like being touched when I’m not expecting it.’ Theo’s chest visibly pulses as he gets a hold of himself. ‘I need warning to prepare myself. I’ve learned to read people, to predict their moves, but it’s a constant challenge. It’s exhausting, hence the control of my home.’ He pauses for a beat, letting me absorb it all. ‘Your touch sinks past my skin, Izzy. It warms me. With you, I barely need to think. My body responds to you. I don’t know why, but it does.’
‘Except in bed.’
‘While I’m lost in you, I want only to be lost in you. I won’t risk losing my focus when we’re intimate. Like I’ve promised you before, I won’t hurt you, not in any way.’ He gives my cheek a light brush with his palm, his smile fond as I nuzzle into his hand. ‘I hope you believe me.’
‘I do,’ I assure him, feeling a little overcome. ‘I’ve never doubted that part of you.’
Dropping a kiss on my lips, he strokes over the curve of my arse. ‘Now, tell me about you,’ he mumbles against my mouth.
I withdraw fast, and it is complete instinct. ‘What?’ I feel myself folding in once again.
‘I’ve shared, now I want to know about you.’
I stare at him, seeing the questions in his eyes. Yes, he’s shared, but I’m certain there must be more to it than that. Like why he’s like he is. But this has to be give and take, right? He’s shared a little, and if I want this to work – and I so do – then I have to reciprocate, no matter how much it hurts. ‘My mother died of cancer when I was seventeen. She was all I had, and I . . .’ I gulp, battling with my instinct to run before I can be forced to share something I really do not want to share. ‘We weren’t rich. We only had each other, so I had nothing when she was gone. No home, no money. I needed money.’
