Page 103 of Dark Night of the Soul

Then there was fury. Not at him. At them. Fury they tried to take this away, too. Hadn’t they stolen enough? Wasn’t it enough they forced me to become something I hardly recognized?

“We can stop,” he said.

“No. I need—” I halted, trying to say what I needed. What would help keep me grounded.

He waited. Standing still. This was uncharted territory, and I wasn’t sure how to navigate it. I knew what I wanted. What I needed. But had never put it into words.

“Tell me what you need.”

A breath shuddered out. “I need your hands on me.”

His hands moved to my back, sliding under my shirt. Pausing there long enough for me to feel his steadiness, his strength. The trembling slowed to a shiver.

“Like this?”

“Yes.” A whisper.

I focused on that. And the burn in my head slowed and then disappeared.

I didn’t know what I needed next. I stood there, letting the heat of him wash over me. Letting him hold me. Trying to keep that part of my brain that wanted to attack in control.

So, he moved. One hand slid over the curve of my spine. The other steady at the small of my back. I didn’t know how he could stand there and be so calm when I was coming apart at the seams.

I realized I still clutched his shirt in my fists and loosened my grip. Relaxed my fingers. Pressed my hands there against him.

“We don’t have to do anything else.”

He was giving me space. Letting me choose.

I thought about what tripped it. And I knew. It was the fierce kiss that triggered it.

“I need to—can we go slow?”

“As slow as you need.”

I lifted my gaze and saw his drumming pulse. My hand moved before I decided. An impulse. I rested it against the side of his neck, feeling it beat against my palm. And the heady scent of him made me woozy.

I don’t know how long we stood like that, but it felt like an eternity.

As slow as you need.

Which meant it was all up to me. Initiate. And if I wanted this—him—I had to. I did, but it was terrifying. So many what ifs. What if that place in my head took over? What if I couldn’t stop it? What if I hurt him?

I exhaled a shaky breath.

But slow was the answer. Slow. Steady. Calm.

My trembling fingers reached for the hem of my shirt. I pulled it up and off, letting it fall to the floor. His hands still on my back. I felt his breath change—deeper, slower—but he didn’t move. Didn’t rush me.

What now? I didn’t know. But he stood there and let me figure it out.

One step at a time.

I slipped my hands under his shirt, felt the curve of his chest. The dusting of hair. The scar along his left ribs. The one on his shoulder I stitched so long ago in Madrid. When he talked me through it while my hands shook.

My hands shook now.

I paused, took a deep breath, then pushed the shirt higher. He tugged it off. It landed on the floor in a whisper of cotton.