Page 106 of Heimlock

“You have no idea,” I joke, but also definitely not joking.

“I have some idea,” she retorts sleepily.

We sit there on my couch, with a throbbing cock between my thighs, as she dozes. I continue running my fingers through her creamsicle hair, willing this moment to last forever. It’s probably the most content I’ve been in my life. Knowing this could only happen once, ever, is both terrifying and enough.

“Trinte?” Her voice is heavy with sleep.

Smiling, I press a kiss to her forehead. “Yes?”

“Can I ask my third question?”

My fingers still. The peace relaxing my muscles disappears. Trying to keep my breath steady, I say, “Sure.”

Resuming playing with her hair, I wait for the torture to begin.

“Why don’t you want a relationship?”

Okay, out of everything possible, that’s not a terrible question. Heavy, but not excruciating.

Hugging her a little closer, as if she’s my security blanket, I say, “I don’t know if it’s a matter of not wanting. So many times, I tried to make things work with women who seemed determined to run in the other direction. Even the ones I was so sure were different. Each time, it broke my heart a little more. Eventually, I reached a point where a relationship was too daunting to pursue."

My throat works around tears before I can say, “But also, eventually I also became emotionally unavailable. To protect myself. It’s not so much that I don’t want a relationship as it’s not wanting anymore pain.”

She’s quiet, but the hand on my chest begins to rub gently, soothing the anxiety threatening to swallow me.

I continue, feeling sick about what I’m admitting. “When you told me you didn’t want a relationship with me, I was … relieved. I think a deep part of me knew what your entering my life would mean and … I wasn’t ready.”

Her hand stills. “Are you ready now?”

“For you, I’ll try to be.” The wall inside me reappears, trying to block me from saying the words. But for her, I have to say this. These teeth must part and speak truths. “If you want to, that is. I’m not trying to pressure you or anything.”

I wish her face were visible. What is she thinking about this confession? Does it make her want to run like all the others? The moment I became too … vulnerable and raw with the others, they ran. Granted, I’d probably rushed things in my youthful ignorance. With her, every extra moment of slow pacing matters.

Is this confession too much? She still hasn’t spoken. My heart beat increases. I hope she can’t hear it. Then she’ll know how much I want this.

Need this.

Need her.

Kyrielle’s hand begins to rub again; I exhale slowly. Her voice is so quiet as she says, “Let’s decide after the rest of the questions, okay?”

Her response leaves me stunned and almost hurt. Trying not to drown in my self-doubt, I ask, “Has … what I shared so far … not been enough for you to feel confident?”

Or is she waiting to find out all of my dirtiness to decide the level of filth she can tolerate?

In a flash, she’s sitting up, alert and worried. Bringing a hand to each of my cheeks, she says firmly, “No. But you were the one who said I should wait for all of my questions to be asked. Remember?”

The anguish subsides — barely. She’s right; I did say that. Why did I say that?

Shame. The most powerful emotion in existence. Stronger than love.

“Yes, I remember,” I say quietly. “But …” I look away, said shame appearing again, trying to be in charge.

“But what?” she says patiently.

I shake my head, struggling with the words.

“Hey, look at me, Gleanscale.”