Chapter 4 #3
I paused, holding his gaze. The thing was, I’d dated a manipulator.
Henry was charming and perfect on the outside, but he’d taken a chisel to my self-esteem and carefully carved out chunks of it over the course of our three-and-a-half-year relationship.
When he’d broken up with me, I’d been devastated, but a part of me had been relieved.
I hadn’t quite shaken the voice in my head that told me no one would want me—a voice that sounded eerily similar to Henry’s—but I was working on it.
And I’d been able to recognize that his leaving me had been a good thing, even though it hurt.
Some men were users, consumed with selfish desires and a need for control.
Gideon was not that. He was angry and guarded, but he didn’t look at me like I was something he could use. History taught me I shouldn’t trust him, and maybe I didn’t—not completely. But I wasn’t afraid of him.
I stuck my jaw out. “Like it or not, we’re in this together, Gideon.”
He blinked when I said his name, and his eyes dropped to my lips.
Sparks flitted through my middle as we stood there, suspended in time.
Warmth dripped like melted wax across my lower abdomen and down the insides of my thighs, but I knew the space between my legs remained as malfunctioning as it always had.
The new me hadn’t grown a different, more operational vagina.
Didn’t mean I couldn’t want, though. Want and fantasize and touch. The problem was when a man wanted more. Or, in Gideon’s case, when a man didn’t want anything at all.
Gideon tilted his head toward the small hallway off the kitchen. “I’ll show you the bedroom.”
That’s when I realized this house was gorgeous, but it was small. Like, one-bedroom small. He grabbed both suitcases and led the way into the bedroom. Our bedroom.
I stared at the bed, neatly made, two pillows lying flat at the head, and my throat went tight.
“I can”—Gideon cleared his throat, suddenly dropping the whole I’m-a-scary-monster-and-you-should-be-scared-of-me act—“I’ll sleep on the couch.”
“That’s not—” I stopped. “I don’t want to kick you out of your own bed.
” I knew how it felt to be relegated to the couch.
I wouldn’t do it to my own husband. I swallowed, straightened my shoulders.
“We’re married,” I finally said, but didn’t have the guts to finish the thought. We should be sharing a bed.
Gideon set my suitcases down in front of the closet doors, then turned to face me.
The room was so small that he’d only had to lean over to do it, and my bags now blocked the path to the other side of the bed.
Gideon made it feel even smaller. He was just so…
big. Broad shoulders and thick legs. A muscular chest. Easy, powerful movements.
He towered over me, and I couldn’t bring myself to dislike the feeling.
Why hadn’t I just accepted his offer to sleep on the couch?
That would’ve solved all my issues. I wouldn’t have to tell him about my viselike, malfunctioning vagina, and he wouldn’t have to realize that my body was defective and useless.
You look like you’re built for sex, Henry told me more than once, clicking his tongue, eyes sympathetic.
He’d make it sound like a compliment, until he’d add, It’s such a waste.
If Gideon slept on the couch, we could coexist, reach some sort of understanding, live our parallel lives. Easy. Simple. Clean.
But then what? What if Gideon was my best chance at a good life?
I loved this cottage in the forest. I loved the run-down town and the kooky, elderly inhabitants.
I loved that the biggest problem was Mr. Titty and a few overly loud motorcycles.
The slashed tire wasn’t great, but I could deal with that.
I wanted to stay. For the first time in years, it felt like I was choosing something for myself.
I wasn’t just picking a slice of the wedding industry and carving out a business because that’s what my family expected.
I wasn’t dating a man who would be my perfect match on paper, even though he was a different person behind closed doors.
Coming to this little town had been an act of rebellion, and I wasn’t ready to tuck tail and run.
Vaginismus could be cured. Every doctor said so. My old therapist said so. My brain just had to get the memo to not make those muscles clench when they were supposed to relax. Problem was, my brain had never cooperated, and I was starting to think it never would.
And what were the chances of Gideon hanging around while I tried to fix my malfunctioning brain and my stupid, nonworking vagina?
But maybe…maybe tonight was the night? I was married now. My husband was there, big and broad and male, and there was no reason for us not to try.
“What do you want, Sadie?” Gideon asked.
The room was dark, with only a sliver of light coming in between the curtains, highlighting Gideon’s cheekbone, his jaw, his hair.
The scarred side of his face was in shadow.
His voice vibrated across the space between us, sliding over my skin like velvet. He had a great voice.
My own came out like a whisper when I said, “I want to try. I don’t want to give up before we’ve attempted to make it work.”
His eyes glittered in the dimness, studying me.
The light was fading fast, and we hadn’t flicked on the lamp.
Licking my lips, I lifted a hand to touch his jaw.
I remembered how he’d flinched when I’d grabbed his left hand, and I regretted making him uncomfortable, so I made sure to touch the unscarred right side.
Maybe the skin on his left side was oversensitive or sore, or maybe he just didn’t want to be touched there.
I, of all people, should’ve understood that.
I resolved to do better. I’d take note of his boundaries and stay on my side of them.
Stubble rasped against my palm, and I traced the line of his beard up to his ear, combing my fingernails over his temple and down to the nape of his neck.
His hair was like heavy silk against the backs of my hands.
A low, rumbling groan sounded in Gideon’s throat.
The sound was tortured and needy and hot.
He did that from me touching the side of his head.
What sounds would he make when I touched the rest of him?
Liquid heat scorched down my thighs, and I found myself moving closer.
My front pressed against Gideon’s as his hands slowly slid up my flanks and came to rest on my waist.
I focused on my breathing. My body was healthy, and it would work. That’s what my therapist had said. My body was healthy. My body was healthy. My body was healthy. As long as I stayed relaxed, my brain wouldn’t panic and cause my pelvic floor to seize up.
It helped that Gideon’s touch was gentle, that he seemed content with stroking the bottom of my ribcage with his thumbs, that his eyes circled my face and softened.
I could do this. In one of my suitcases, there was a set of graduated dildos—a dilator set—that I’d bought to try to stretch things down there.
I’d gotten to the second one out of five, about the thickness of my middle finger and a little longer.
It was still uncomfortable, but it was getting easier.
I could have sex. I would have sex. Tonight was my wedding night! I would not mess it up.
Looking up at my husband’s face and unable to read his expression in the darkness, I asked, “Why didn’t you kiss me before, at the altar?”
He was silent for a long moment. I felt his jaw clench against my palm, and then he finally replied, “Didn’t think you’d want to.”
I exhaled softly, my heart throbbing violently. “I did,” I admitted. “I do.”
GIDEON
I thought I’d heard wrong. With my hands on her waist and the soft press of her breasts against my chest, my heart was thumping so hard I couldn’t trust my ears.
She had to have an angle. She wouldn’t want me, ugly and scarred as I was. This was a ruse. A ploy. For what? What was she trying to gain?
But I was weak, and she was temptation incarnate. My resistance crumbled. I couldn’t go the rest of my life without tasting her lips at least once.