Chapter 21
TWENTY-ONE
NAOMI
B randon steps inside, his eyes scanning my surroundings before landing on me.
I hold up my hand, chip dust falling like snow. “Don’t look.”
“Too late.” He closes the door with a soft click.
My legs give out, and I fall to my knees, clutching the chip bag to my chest like a shield. “I tried.” The crinkle of the bag matches my shaky breaths. “At dinner, I really tried.”
He crouches in front of me, out of reach. “I know.”
“And then you—” I force down the emotion threatening to choke me. “You were right. About the bathroom. About everything.”
“Naomi.”
“I can’t stop.” My fingers dig into the bag, crushing chips to powder. “Once I start, I just… I need to feel full. So full it hurts. And then?—”
The dress constricts, crushing my ribs. “This—” I drop the bag and claw at the zipper on my back, desperate for release. “I—” My lungs burn.
I can’t breathe.
He reaches for me, but I flinch away. “Don’t touch me.”
“Easy.” His voice drops low, gentle.”Let me help you, cupcake.”
“No, I—” I scratch uselessly at the zipper while black spots dance at the edges of my vision. “I can’t?—”
“Naomi.” He stays where he is, patient, waiting. “Look at me.”
I meet his eyes, finding nothing but concern there. No judgment. No disgust.
“Let me help,” he says again, softer this time.
My hands fall to my sides, trembling, and I manage a small nod. He moves behind me, his fingers brushing against my spine, steady and sure as he works the zipper down. The fabric parts like a sigh, pooling at my waist, and my chest heaves, my lungs finally expanding.
I wait for shame to hit, for vulnerability to crush me, but it doesn’t come.
“Better?” His breath tickles my neck.
I nod. The remnants of dinner churn in my stomach, a constant reminder of my failure, but weirdly, I do feel better now.
“Did you buy this in the kids’ section?” He fiddles with the zipper.
“No. I just… I like them tight. Makes me feel…” In control. Safe. Like I can hold myself together when everything else falls apart.
Brandon’s fingers trail along my shoulder blade, leaving goosebumps in their wake. “Makes you feel what?”
“Like I deserve it.” My fingers twist into the dress, still bunched around my hips. “The discomfort. The way it digs in.” I can control it, not like…
He grabs the fabric. “Arms up.”
I comply, and he strips the dress away. Now the shame comes—not from being nearly naked, but from the empty chip bag mocking me from the floor. From the evidence of weakness coating my fingers. From knowing he witnessed the monster inside me winning again.
“Look at me.” He clasps my chin, carefully turning my face toward his like I might shatter. Maybe I will. “You’re okay.”
“I’m not.” My voice cracks. “I ate all that food, and now?—”
“Now nothing.” His thumb brushes my cheek. “You’re staying right here with me.”
The bathroom door seems to mock me from across the room. Its presence an ever-constant temptation, promising relief and control. Brandon must see where my gaze landed because he shifts, deliberately blocking my view.
“I need to?—”
“What you need is to breathe.” He grabs a throw blanket from my couch, wrapping it around my shoulders.
The soft fabric cocoons me, replacing the constriction of the dress with gentle warmth.
“Breathe with me,” he says. “In through your nose.”
“I don’t need?—”
“Shut up and breathe.”
I suck in a shaky breath, matching his exaggerated inhale.
“Hold it.” His thumb brushes over my shoulder in rhythmic motions. “Now out.”
The air leaves my lungs in a whoosh. We repeat this until my heart stops trying to break through my ribcage.
“Better?”
I nod, unable to meet his eyes.
Brandon scoops me up without warning, blanket and all. I hate feeling like this, like a pathetic little child, but I’m too drained to protest as he carries me to the bathroom, his steps careful and measured.
The tiles feel cold against my feet when he sets me down and turns on the faucet, steam rising as water fills the tub.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
He tests the temperature with his wrist. “For what?”
“For being…” Broken. Difficult. A mess.
“I was a dick.” He removes the blanket from my shoulders. “I’m sorry.”
“I can do this myself.“
“I will help you.”
“You can’t just?—”
His jaw sets in that stubborn way that means arguing is pointless. “Strip.”
Heat floods my cheeks. “Turn around.”
“Seriously?” He gestures at my nearly naked body. “After everything we’ve done?”
“It is… different.” Raw. Exposed.
“Fine.” He turns his back, shoulders tense. “But if you’re not in that tub in thirty seconds, I’m throwing you in myself.”
I unhook my bra and step out of my slip.
“Twenty seconds.”
“You’re insufferable.” I step into the warm water enveloping my body.
He checks his sleeves, rolling them up further. “Can I turn around now?”
I draw my knees to my chest, creating a barrier between us. “If you must.”
He takes his time, his touch reassuring as he rinses away the remnants of my breakdown.
There’s nothing sexual about it, just pure care wrapped in silence. It reminds me of when Blake would clean me up after particularly bad episodes in college, except this feels different. More intimate somehow.
I let the warm and steady pressure of his hands seep into my bones, keeping the guilt at bay.
Next, he grabs a washcloth and scrubs my hands until the last traces of chip dust disappear from my nails.
“How does this feel? Okay?”
I sink deeper into the water, letting it lap at my chin. “I hate that you’re right.”
“Get used to it.” His fingers trail through the water, creating ripples that brush against my skin.
“I meant what I said. About the restaurant.”
His hand stills. “Naomi, stop.”
“You light up when you talk about food. You always did.”
“Times change.”
“They don’t have to.”
“We’re not talking about my shit.” His fingers resume their lazy pattern, his forearm muscles flexing with each movement. “We’re dealing with yours.”
I don’t want to deal with mine. It’s disgusting enough that he saw me like that.
Maybe…
I sit up, water cascading down my chest, his eyes tracking the droplets.
“Brandon.”
“I know what you’re doing.” He withdraws his hand.
Water sloshes as I shift closer. “You don’t want me?”
His jaw ticks. “No sex.”
“What if I’m ready? Believe that you won’t leave.”
“You’d rather let me fuck you senseless than admit you’re struggling?” He leans forward, close enough that I can see the tsunami raging in his eyes. “Rather have my cock inside you than deal with what’s eating you up?”
“I do.” I surge forward, crashing my lips to?—
His hand grasps my chin, stopping me inches from his mouth. “No kissing. Did you forget?”
I don’t care. Right now, I’ll give him anything, so he just takes over control. Makes this go away.
Makes me feel desired and not disgusting.
I grip his wrist, trying to break free.
He removes my hand. “Stop.”
“Why?” My brow furrows. “Do I disgust you?”
His eyes darken. “Turn around and grab the edge.”
I grip the edge of the tub, but don’t turn. “Why? So you don’t have to look at me?”
“I said turn around.” His voice carries that edge of authority that makes my skin tingle. That I want. Need. “Now.”
“I—”
“We can play your little game.” His thumb presses into my lip. “But we play by my rules. And now. Turn. Around.”
My body follows his command on autopilot, my knuckles whitening as I wait, vulnerability and humiliation coursing through my mind. But my body… It thrums with anticipation, desperate for his touch, his control. For the brief oblivion his dominance promises. Oblivion I don’t deserve but crave nonetheless.
Something turns, and the water drains.
My knees press deeper into the bottom of the tub, trying to hide my body beneath the disappearing water as the air hits every newly exposed inch of my skin with goosebumps. I should shiver, but heat courses through me, chasing away any chill as I’m bent at the waist, back arched, ass lifted above the water that now sloshes around my thighs.
Then it stops, the water calming down while my heart explodes.
I’m waiting. Waiting for his touch, but it doesn’t come. The only sound is my own ragged breathing and the tap dripping in staccato beats.
My thighs quiver. I don’t know how long he makes me wait like this, on display. It feels endless.
I close my eyes, trying to steady my nerves, to be patient.
“Good girl.” A warm puff of air tickles my ear from behind.
My eyes snap open. But I stay silent. Waiting again. Needing him to take control because I’m tired of drowning alone.
“You want to forget?” His voice is a low rumble. “Want me to fuck the pain away?”
I nod.
“Use your words, Naomi.” His hand glides up my back, fingers tracing each vertebra. “Tell me what you need.”
“You.” Control me. Make me forget. Make me feel worthy. “I need you.”
“How do you need me?” His hand fists in my hair, his pull deliberate, coaxing a gasp from my lips. “Like this?”
“Yes. Please.”
He nips at my earlobe. “You want me to make you feel good? Make you forget all about dinner and those chips?”
I drop my head forward, slamming my eyes shut to prevent the tears from gathering. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” His hand tightens in my hair, forcing my head back again. “Don’t make you face what you’re running from?”
A sob builds in my throat. “I can’t.”
“You can.” His other hand skims down my side, fingers dancing along my ribs. “You’re stronger than you think.”
“I’m not. I’m?—”
“Beautiful.” He kisses my shoulder, slow and purposeful, in a silent promise. “Brilliant.” A kiss to my neck. “Brave. The woman who has me wrapped around her little finger.”
“Brandon, please.” I’m not above begging. Not now. “I need?—”
“I know what you need.” His palm glides over my ass. “But I’m not sure you’re ready for it.”
I try to face him, but his grip in my hair holds me in place. “I am. I’m ready. Just… please.”
His hand comes down on my ass, not hard, making me whimper in pleasure.
“Too much?” He caresses the sting, his fingers a feather-light touch on my skin.
“No.”
Another smack, slightly harder.
My thighs clench, and I whimper again.
“Color system.” His fingers trace lazy circles between my thighs “Green means go. Yellow means slow down. Red means stop. Got it?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” His smooth, growly voice washes over me like warm honey. “What’s your color?”
“Green.” I arch into his touch, seeking more. “So fucking green.”
A dark chuckle rumbles against my neck. “Eager little thing, aren’t you?”
His fingers drift higher, barely grazing where I need them, and my hips buck, trying to get him there.
“Ah ah.” The hand in my hair switches to my hip, holding me still. “My rules.”
I nod.
Another smack lands, harder this time, and the sting blooms across my skin. Pleasure mixing with pain.
“Color?”
My voice comes out breathless. “Green.”
His fingers trail down my spine. “You’re going to count for me. Ten strikes. After each one, you’ll tell me something true.”
My stomach clenches. “About what?”
“Whatever’s in that pretty head of yours.” His palm smooths over my ass. “Something real. No deflecting.”
“I—”
The next strike cuts off my protest.
“One,” I gasp.
He waits, his hand resting on my hip.
“I…” The words are there, burning behind my lips. “I hate how the dress felt, but I bought it anyway.”
“Why?” Another strike lands.
“Two.” A deep breath, then I shut my eyes, bracing myself. “It keeps everything together when I’m falling apart.”
The next strike makes me arch.
“Keep going.”
“Three.” Tears pool at the edges of my lashes, blurring my vision. “I’m scared of what you’ll think of me. After seeing… after tonight.”
His thumb sweeps away a stray tear I didn’t realize had fallen. “I’m not going anywhere.”
The fourth strike lands before I can process his words.
“Four.” My skin burns, the warmth almost dizzying. “I don’t believe you.”
His touch vanishes, and for several heartbeats, there’s nothing but our breathing and the steady drip of the faucet echoing off tile.
“Do you want to stop?” he asks.
I shake my head. “Green.”
“You sure?”
“Please.” I need this. Need him. Need to feel something other than the chaos in my head. To not think about dinner or chips or?—
Another slap on my ass. “Where’d you go?”
“Here,” I whisper. “I’m here.”
“Are you?” His palm connects with my ass again, the sting spreading like wildfire across my skin. “Do you want me to break you?”
My fingers grip the edge of the tub tighter. The need pulses through me, raw and desperate. “Yes.”
“You don’t need me to break you.” His hand ghosts over my ass. “You’re doing a pretty good job of that yourself.”
The words hit harder than the spanking. “That’s not?—”
“Fair?” His fingers thread through my hair again, a whisper against my scalp that soothes rather than demands. “Neither is making me watch you destroy yourself.”
I try to move, but his grip is unshakable, keeping me exactly where he wants. The water laps at my thighs, cold now, making my skin pebble. Or maybe it’s his words.
His fingers trace my spine. I am exposed, completely exposed. Not just physically. He sees right through me, past all my carefully constructed walls.
“Bran—” Another smack cuts me off.
“Tell me…” His hand rests on my ass, a warm reminder of his control. “Why do you punish yourself?”
“I can’t.”
“You can.” He releases my hair, moving to cup my throat. Not squeezing, just holding. “And you will.”
“Please.” I’m not sure if I’m begging him to stop or continue. “I just want to forget.”
“That’s not how this works.” His thumb skims over my throat, pausing where my pulse hammers beneath his touch. “Not anymore.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“Because someone needs to.” His grip on my throat tightens fractionally. “Because you deserve better than using my cock to avoid your feelings.”
A sob escapes me.
“Why Naomi?”
“Please don’t make me.”
“Answer me!” Another slap.
“Because I can control it!”
He caresses the flaming skin. “Why do you need to control it?”
“Yellow.” The word comes out strangled. “Please, I need a minute.”
His grip loosens slightly, but he doesn’t let go. “Why do you punish yourself? With food. With dresses that feel like a prison.”
“Because…” Every bite I take, every moment of happiness I feel—it’s stolen. I know what I did. What I let happen. The garage, the smell of oil, and Mom’s mascara running down her face. “I deserve it.”
“Why?” He presses against me, his clothes rough against my wet skin. “Say it.”
“Brandon, please!”
“Say. It.”
“Red.” The dam breaks. “Red, red, red.”
He releases me instantly, the loss of his touch leaving me shaking, but I can’t—I won’t.
“Naomi?”
“No.” I curl into myself, enforcing a wall between us. “Don’t come near me.”
The bathroom feels too small, too confining. A reminder of how close I came to telling him everything.
“Let me get you a towel,” he says.
“Go.”
“I’m not leaving you like this.” A towel appears in my peripheral vision, held out like a peace offering.
I snatch it, wrapping it around myself like armor as I step out of the cold water. The fabric is soft against my skin, but it doesn’t stop the trembling.
“Talk to me.” His voice is low, calm. Like I’m some frightened animal he’s trying not to spook.
Maybe I am.
“There’s nothing to talk about.” I shut my eyes. “Please just leave me alone.”
“I won’t.” He doesn’t move closer, giving me space I both appreciate and resent. “You know I won’t.”
“What do you want from me, Brandon?” I open my eyes, and everything inside me flatlines. No anger. No hurt. Just… nothing. “To play therapist? To fix the broken girl? Is that what gets you off?”
He flinches. The movement is slight, but I catch it. “Naomi, I?—”
“Go!”
His jaw tightens, a muscle ticking beneath his skin. For a long moment, he just stares at me, something unreadable in his eyes.
“I’ll go.” He takes a step back. “But only because you’re asking.” His hand grips the doorframe. “If you need anything?—”
“I won’t.” I whirl around, facing away from him.
Another beat passes before he says, “Call me.”
I don’t answer. Just listen to his footsteps retreat, the soft click of the front door echoing through my empty apartment.
Food.