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My home screen lighting up jarred me from thoughts of last night. I sipped at my forgotten coffee, but it had gone tepid during my musing. I shoved it aside and did a search fortop therapists in the New York City area.
I thought back to how well adjusted Cole was before I’d gotten my hands on him again, and the blatant fear in his eyes the last night we were together, like he was terrified of spiraling to a time when he wasn’t so adjusted.
“I can’t compete with your pain, angel. Your wounds are too deep for my love to reach. Too deep for my love to heal. You have to find a way past it.”
He’d chosen to save himself, and the decision wasn’t easy, but maybe now I had the courage to do the same.
Ten phone calls and one last minute cancellation later, and I was running through the front door toward my first session, toward getting better. A welcome change from running away from it.
I returned home excited, ready to share my day with someone, forgetting Daniel wouldn’t be home for a couple hours, forgetting he wasn’t the person to share anything with.
Quickly, without giving myself time to think, I gathered the scrapbook and journal entry into my satchel, and bolted through the door again. I should’ve probably waited for Daniel to get home, should’ve probably had “the talk” with him first, but I was more interested in providing Cole with a measure of peace, knowing the revelation of our mother’s disapproval had to have weighed heavily on him.
Two trains and nearly an hour later, I was pushing through the hotel lobby, signing in and moving purposefully for the elevator bank. Knowing he hadn’t removed my name from the approved visitors list helped relieve some of the fear-acid scorching holes through my insides as I made the journey up.
I’d been off the elevator three seconds when a sweat-slicked Cole came charging from the direction of his home gym, hair wet from a recent workout, dick caged to his inner thigh by his compression tights.
His eyes were hard as ice, breathing accelerated, chest pumping brutally. I didn’t know what had him so riled up, or who he had expected me to be, but I wanted all of his menace let loose on me. All the barbarity and pain and the lust now boiling behind that stone cold stare… I wanted to be on the receiving and losing end of it all. My body clenched in agreement.
“Jas?” be breathed, the syllable rough as he worked on shifting gears. “What are you doing here?” He came closer, worry washing over his expression. He rested a folder I hadn’t noticed he’d been holding on the foyer table. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I said, clearing my head and throat, thankful for the long coat covering my crotch area. My heart vibrated with missing him. “Sit with me.” Too impatient to go any further, I moved to the wall and slid down, patting the space next to me. I pulled my satchel strap from over my head and reached in for the scrapbook. Cole shuffled over and took a seat.
“Why are we on the floor?” he asked.
I placed the book on his lap in answer. I explained every photo, read him every note, and waited as long as it took for him to absorb it all before moving on. Then I passed him the sheet of journal paper, and watched as his mouth moved soundlessly as he read it twice.
Cole stared ahead in a trance for so long after, I nearly checked for a pulse. I tucked the paper and book back into my bag and set it aside.
“She would’ve tried,” I said, after a while. “You were right, Cole. About it all.”
He sought out my hand and held it, and we did that for a while, just sitting, staring at the opposite wall, and speaking through touch.
“I had my first therapy session today,” I said, and he whipped his head around to me, eyes wide, then growing cautious, as if he didn’t want to give himself false hope. “I’m leaving him, Cole.”
“You are?” he said with no emotion or inflection.
“I am,” I confirmed, and he waited until he couldn’t anymore.
“Jasper—?”
“Will you still forgive me?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said.
“Will you secretly resent me for what I’ve done?”
“No, Jasper.” He squeezed my hand. “I could never resent you for something you had a right to.”
“Will you still have me?” Emotion clamped around my throat, making it hard to breathe, hard to wait in anticipation of his answer. “Do you still want me?”
“Yes,” he said, as if it were the dumbest question in the world. “I’ll not only have you, I’ll swear to never let you go.”
We were all fumbling mouths and overwhelmed hands after that, my layers of clothing meeting the floor as I helped him free of his tights. “I need a shower,” he said, recapturing my lips with his teeth, a light fragrance of sandalwood and musk hitting my nose, triggering my salivary glands as his sweat transferred to my bare skin.
“I don’t give a shit, Cole. Justpleasedon’t stop touching me.”
“I need you on my tongue,” he said, frantically pulling at my hair and humping me. “I need you on my tongue and down my throat.”
