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And then there’s the fact that we’re alone in my bedroom. No rules. No interruptions. No limits.
We can do whatever we want.
So what do we want?
Drew answers my unspoken question with a kiss. His mouth says I’m sorry.
His hands say I’m hungry.
Hungry for you.
No one has touched me intimately in so long. Our kiss the other day was nothing compared to this. We have the luxury of laying on a bed, stretched out, his body unfolding for me to touch and stroke, explore and forgive.
Forgive.
“I forgive,” I whisper between kisses. “I forgive myself.”
“And me?” The anguish in his voice makes me halt.
“I want to forgive you.” He needs to hear the words. I know he does. You can’t erase four years of worrying and looping with a single sentence. A handful of kisses. A conversation.
You just can’t.
I can’t.
“I understand,” he says, “because you’re ahead of me.”
“Ahead?”
“I can’t forgive myself. I can’t. You should forgive yourself, because not one drop of it was your fault. But I keep going over that night, wondering how I could have outsmarted them. Overpowered them. Done something more.”
“You couldn’t.”
“I could now.”
I am tracing the edge of his cheekbone as he says that. I stop, my finger perched on the hollow bone beneath his right eye. “You could?”
“I know how. Took years of training. But yes.”
Some muscle in my chest releases. “Really?”
“That has been my single goal these four years. To learn how to win. How to win in any battle. Make no mistake, Lindsay. When I say they will never hurt you again, I mean it.”
Drew’s eyes telescope, like a sniper’s sight.
“I believe you,” I blurt out. Because damn.
He’s hard core. There is no ambiguity here.
His hand rests on my ribs, right where my waistline meets my bones. Fingertips slip under my t-shirt, stopping. The feel of his callused palm against my bare skin sends a full-body shiver through me.
“Can we stop talking about the past, Lindsay?” he says, eyes on mine. “And talk about what’s happening right now?”
My mouth goes dry. My V becomes hot and swollen, wet and aroused, my pulse migrating between my legs. When I was at the Island, I was encouraged to explore my emotions connected to sexuality. Told it was healthy to take care of things myself. Asked to report on my masturbation habits.
It was sooooo sexy.
For years, any sexual touch—and the only sexual touch has been my own—brought forth horror movie images of what was done to me. Only in the last year have I been able to sate myself without experiencing flashbacks.
