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I tried to breathe, worked to find something to focus on. I remembered an exercise my school therapist had taught me after my rape and attempted to find five things to see.
My shoe, still stained from the dirt. One.
A wet leaf, stuck to the porch. Two.
The row of trucks, on the edge of the house. Three.
Laurent’s boots, stacked by the door. Four.
My hand, trembling on my jeans. Five.
I tucked my fingers into a fist and held it against my stomach. I thought about my dad, and how slowly he climbed the front steps into the house. His awkward stretch to reach the hunting rifle he has hanging over the back door. I pinched my eyes closed and struggled to return to the exercise. Five things to see.
Four things you can touch.
I uncoiled my fist and reached out, running a hand over the damp wood on the porch, the surface bumpy, the paint more worn off than present. One.
“Bell?”
I ignored him and propped the phone against my shoulder, moving a hand to the knee of my sweatpants, ones I washed and dried this morning. The material was thick and soft, and I rubbed my fingertips along the cheap side seam. Two.
I placed my hand on my neck, pulling the neck of my T-shirt down and putting my hand over my heart, the skin warm, my heartbeat quick. I took a deep breath and exhaled. Three.
“Bell!”
“Just a minute.” I mumbled the words and looked over the porch, not wanting to stand, finding a twig that had fallen on the bottom step, a few feet away. I strained forward to reach it, and closed my hand around it, the strong stick reassuring in my grip. Four. Four things to touch.
Three things you can hear. I closed my eyes. Focused on the soft sounds from inside, the low murmur of voices.
Someone laughed.
A car door quietly shut.
Crickets, loud and persistent, buzzed.
The constant sounds were relaxing, and I rested my head against the post, my hand tightening and loosening on the stick, and focused on the chirp of the crickets for several long seconds. Three things you can hear.
Two things you can smell. Lime. There was a faint scent of it in the air, and I remembered watching Laurent spread a line of it along the perimeter of the yard to keep snakes away.
I blocked out the scent and tried to find another, something more than the humid blanket that defines this place. There. A wisp of something. Something familiar. Expensive. Refined. Wild. Something that smelled of power and sexuality. Something that had made me swoon and buckle and yield and fall in love.
I snapped my eyes open and saw him there. I didn’t move, didn’t breathe, didn’t do anything to disrupt the moment, certain that it was a mirage, my panic creating something that didn’t exist.
He crouched before me, his eyes tender, and reached forward, cupping my neck, his thumb gently tracing along my skin. “It’s okay.”
I dropped the stick and grabbed his shirt. My cell hit the porch, and I clawed up his chest, staring at him. “How are you—?”
He pressed his lips to my forehead, then my cheek, sitting down on the step and pulling me into his lap. I curled against his chest like a child and a sob broke from my chest. Tears ran down my cheeks and his arms wrapped around me, hugging me tightly, his body warm and powerful.
“It’s okay. It’s okay—” His voice cracked, and he pulled away enough to see my face. The guilt in his eyes, the weight of it on his handsome features … it broke my heart. I tried to smile, and his face only grew more concerned. “I’m so sorry, Bell. I’m so sorry.”
I sat up, closer to him, and felt his hands tighten. I gripped the back of his neck and pulled his mouth to mine. Our kiss crashed like a kite into a storm. A battle of lips and tongue, need and sorrow. His hand twisted in my hair, pulled me tighter, and our mouths became a frantic mess of small quick contact, and deeper, rough tastes. He broke away and whispered I love you in the moment before he reclaimed my mouth. He dominated and healed, reassured me and begged. In that kiss, a part of us broke apart and then fused back together.
Two things to smell. One thing to taste.
Eight
He lifted me off the step, his mouth frantic, stealing kisses as if worried I’d disappear. He got me on my feet and walked me backward, his arm around my body, keeping me close to his chest. He fumbled with the door, got it open, and kept his mouth on me as we made our way into the living room. He didn’t hesitate, pushing me toward Laurent’s bedroom.
“Hey D.”
The guy on the couch mumbled the greeting and Dario ignored him, nipping at my bottom lip before devouring my neck, his hands feverishly working under the hem of my sweatshirt and dipping under the waist of the pants. I leaned my head back, closing my eyes at the feel of his tongue against my neck, a delicious combination of suction and aggression that had my body twitching in anticipation.
