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“Just remembering that thing you did.”
My cheeks flush, which makes no damn sense. I’ve been naked with this man so many times, him mentioning how I nearly suffocated him while riding his face shouldn’t make me blush.
“I nearly killed you,” I mutter, looking down at the remains of breakfast on my plate.
“Would be one hell of a way to go,” he says, not sounding an ounce regretful.
I’m still blushing when he stands from the table with his plate and scoops mine up before carrying them both to the sink. I know he’s not exactly happy with the progress he’s made, but he’s doing increasingly well with the cane Anthony set him up with.
I continue to sit at the table as he washes the dishes, wondering how the day will go. He should be going to a counseling appointment today, but he continues to refuse to attend. We’ve still been meditating, but we both know that’s only an unspoken segue into sex. Plus, I’m fairly certain his “success” in not having panic attacks the last couple of times is because he’s pretending to do it rather than actually letting his body sink into the calmness that allows for the flashbacks to emerge.
In an effort to keep him from pretending, I’ve walked away each time after telling him he did well.
His huff of disapproval two days ago was all I needed to verify he was simply waiting for what always happens. I refuse to reward fake behavior, although I suffered because of it.
This morning was the first time I went to his room and initiated sex without a precursor. I didn’t offer a massage. It didn’t come on the end of a panic attack. I wanted sex, and he willingly obliged.
“What are the plans for the day?” he asks as he dries his hands with a dish towel.
“Meditation,” I tell him.
A slow devious smile crosses his face, and I have to roll my eyes at where his mind is already going.
“Real meditation,” I chastise as I stand from the table and head into the living room.
“Can we at least do naked meditation?”
I bark out a laugh as I take up my normal spot on the living room floor.
“Is that a yes?”
I look up at him, wanting to argue, but he’s already pulling his shirt over his head.
“Your turn,” he urges before shoving down his sweats.
“Not gonna happen,” I tell him, placing my relaxed palms on my knees and closing my eyes.
He grunts in mild irritation as he sits on the couch, and although I can feel his eyes on me, I don’t look at him. For being a grown-ass man, he gets agitated rather easily.
I concentrate on my breaths, doing my best not to think about how we spent the first part of the morning. It’s becoming increasingly difficult not to consider the two of us a couple. It’s not only the holding each other after sex the last couple of times that makes me want to convince my mind to settle, that Aro is becoming as invested as I am. He watches me, smiling in my direction when he doesn’t think I’m looking. He’s been more considerate and less snarky. His attitude is better all around.
I know he’s attempting to ground himself when his breathing changes. He’s focused on his breaths, but instead of looking up at him, I give him the same privacy I would anyone else.
These sessions are as much for me as they are for him.
But before I can settle into my own trance, his breathing changes once again, going from a rhythmic cadence to short and choppy breaths.
I look up, watching him for a while. Reexperiencing the trauma he suffered is part of working through it and prying that control it has away, only Aro refuses to follow through.
I know what trying to force him to talk about it will do, but I’m also not willing to keep pretending it’s not there.
Quietly, I stand and cross the room to him.
His jaw flexes, his nostrils flaring as I touch him.
He jerks at my touch, and his eyes are a little crazy and unfocused when he opens them.
He reaches for me immediately, looking panicked when I take a step back. My resolve falters and that’s all it takes for me to climb up on his lap.
Instead of returning the kiss, I let my tongue stroke his once before pulling back. His breaths are still hard and uneven as I press my face into his neck and wrap my arms around him as best I can.
He clings to me like a lifeline, his throat repeatedly swallowing.
“You need to talk about it,” I whisper.
His body stiffens, but he doesn’t speak.
I pull back and look at him.
“Josh,” I plea, cupping his cheek. “Please.”
“No.”
I frown in frustration. The man is so fucking stubborn.
“It took longer to hit this time. Before long, it won’t even happen.”
