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He leaned in before I could say anything else and kissed me again. Heat poured down through my chest and centered between my thighs. My panties were drenched and there was a frustrated burning deep inside.
Without thinking, I brought my hands up. My fingertips brushed his jaw, running through his short beard.
He moaned and his hips shifted, trying to work up against my pelvis. His shirt shifted at that moment and the religious medal slid into view. My entire body froze. My stomach turned and went slightly sick. That familiar feeling of weighing my own damnation settled over me.
“What?” he asked, still breathless.
My brows drew together. “Why do you wear that?”
“Huh?” He glanced down and his hand went up, picking up the medal. “Oh, it’s nothing. It was a gift from my mother before she passed.”
I chewed my lip, trying to breathe through my anxiety. My fingers tightened on his chest as I pushed back to climb off his lap, but he stopped me. The arousal had left his face, but it hadn’t been replaced with his usual mockery. Instead, there was faint concern in his eyes.
“What is the problem with my medal?” he asked.
My wrists rotated involuntarily. My only outlet for my emotions. He glanced down and noticed the repetitive motion and to my surprise, he gripped my hands and held them steady. His palms were warm.
They were comforting.
“I don’t have a problem with your medal,” I said. “It makes sense, the reason you wear it.”
His mouth thinned. “Are you all fucked up with shame, princess?”
I blinked. “What?”
“You’re not the first Catholic girl I’ve met,” he said.
I knew that met equaled fucked. A foreign emotion stirred…buried deep down. An ugly,envioussensation.
“What does that mean?” I snapped.
He shrugged. “A lot of the Catholic girls I’ve met from very traditional backgrounds are confused, ashamed, horny, and have eating disorders. It’s in the starter pack, I guess.”
My jaw dropped. “Generalizing much?”
“It’s been my personal experience,” he said. “I’m sure there are some that are very well adjusted. I just haven’t met them.”
I blinked, trying to gather myself. “Well, I don’t have an eating disorder,” I said.
“I was right on three accounts,” he said.
All the fight drained out of me. His words were light, but there wasn’t a hint of mockery in them, and his face was…kind. I swallowed, feeling my walls crumble. Suddenly my pride didn’t seem so important. I fidgeted, but he didn’t release my wrists.
“What are you thinking when you balk at the prospect of sex?” he asked, his voice low.
I swallowed, refusing to meet his eyes. “I dread the shame that comes with it. My mother took me outside when I was young and crushed a flower in her hand and told me that was what I’d become if I let men touch me. She told me that no one wants a rose without petals.”
There was a long, embarrassing silence.
“Well, lucky you’re not a fucking flower,” he said.
I glanced up and shock rippled through my chest. He looked upset…why did he look upset?
“I realize that,” I whispered. “But I spent a long time believing it.”
He cocked his head, still holding me tight.
“Do you see yourself as a participant in the sexual things we do together?” he asked. “Or are you simply the thing that I do things to?”
