Chapter 9
Caitlyn
As I open my eyes, I make a mental note to ask Dr. Moore about a deeper dive into my mental health diagnosis.
As nervous as I am, as challenging as being on the cross is for me, I can't seem to stop.
I can lie to myself all damn day long and try to convince myself that I'm here to get better, to get used to the idea of people touching me so I don't freak out when a stranger accidentally bumps into me, but I know better.
I'm here because of him.
I'm here on the off chance that the man whose real name I don't know will be here.
He wasn't yesterday, but my eyes land right on him tonight.
He's sitting in the exact same spot, with a glass of amber liquor in his hand, as if I'm reliving the exact same moments I've seen him the times before.
The familiarity of it calms me as others wander around my body, their fingers feeling like needles on my skin. I get the distinct feeling that him being here is the only reason I'm not freaking out completely.
I had to be pulled down before the time was up last night, and I know it had everything to do with his absence.
Instead of keeping my eyes closed like I normally do, I spent the first ten minutes on the cross with my gaze darting all over the place to find him. The anxiety of him not being here sent me into a panic. I could hardly breathe by the time I was begging the attendant to get me down.
I know being here could possibly jeopardize my work with Eli, but this is my time. This is my personal life that I'm trying to work through, and I came to the conclusion earlier in the week that I have the right to heal as much as the next person.
Seeing Jersey here started before I knew he was connected to the little boy. Since neither Jericho nor Mr. Hart has said anything about it, I figure there's no issue with what I've been doing despite feeling a pang of guilt for muddying the space between personal and professional.
"The way this skin would look with whip marks…" the man who is circling says.
He's the same creepy guy who mentioned my unmarked skin before, and as much as I try to ignore him and keep my eyes on Jersey, I'm finding it harder and harder.
My stomach turns with his touch, and there's just something about him that is sending up all kinds of red flags. However, the purpose of this exercise is that I don't get to pick and choose who touches me.
I lift my chin a little higher when he disappears out of my line of sight, jerking slightly when his touch runs down my left flank.
"This spot right here is very tender," he says. I hate the sound of his raspy voice, as if he's having a hard time keeping himself under control. "This very spot would look great with just a hint of a trickle of blood. "
I'm in no position to yuck someone else's yum, but what the actual fuck? I whimper when the tip of his fingernail cuts into my skin. It's not enough to make me bleed, but I know it's going to leave a scratch.
I pull my eyes from Jersey and dart them toward Roxie, who reads me like an open book. She takes two steps forward.
"Mr. Dozer, please give others a turn."
I have no idea what the look on his face is because I keep my eyes trained on her, but she raises an eyebrow in challenge. It only takes a second before the air thins out again, telling me that he has walked away.
"You okay?" she asks.
I swallow, contemplating telling her to pull me down, but I know how that goes. I'll go to him at his table, and he won't say a word to me. If I stay, although I'll have to endure more people touching me, I know when it's nearly over, he'll stand, approach, and light my skin on fire in a way I've never felt before until that first night I saw him.
I dip my head, letting her know I'd like to continue. She takes a few steps back before returning to her spot ten or so feet away.
The people who frequent the club enough know that there are attendants for every scene taking place. It's as if they're a silent warning that the rules will not be allowed to be broken. But I know there's always an off chance someone will risk their membership to fulfill a desire they can't seem to fight, and it terrifies me that my rules may be broken at any given moment.
Then again, I guess that could also happen in an uncontrolled situation. It's better for me to be able to deal with it when it comes than to freak out, which could lead to further injury or victimization.
My mind races with thoughts and fears, but then I find his eyes again and then silence .
It should be terrifying the way just the sight of him calms down certain fears inside of me.
I keep repeating that your body knows when someone is there to hurt it or help it. Those sixth senses are pertinent for survival, although many people have lost them over time.
I see the second his eyes cast down to his watch as if he's been timing my session on the cross, and my skin tingles when he drains his glass before setting it on the side table and standing.
The guy sitting beside him, a man who was introduced to me as Lark at the cabin they all share, just now notices me. I watch his mouth form the word motherfucker , before he reaches out in an attempt to grab Jersey's arm as if to try and deter his approach.
My stomach flips as the man pauses before looking down at his friend.
The stare-off is weird to watch, but Lark eventually lets go of Jersey's arm and sits back on the sofa, a frown on his face.
My insides feel like they're getting ready to rebel against their restraints and come pouring out of me as he approaches. I have no idea what the conversations about me have entailed. No one back at the cabin has mentioned my time here, but I doubt they've stayed silent about my attendance.
I lick at my dry lips as he closes the distance between the two of us, but it provides no relief as my breathing grows raspier.
He circles me, his method of operation not changing from the other times he was here with me.
He doesn't lead with his touch, and something about it sets my body on fire.
Arousal I've only ever felt when I'm alone coats my skin, and I find it impossible, tied to this cross, to close my legs to ease the ache between them .
It scares me more than anything else, the sensation that if he chances a look, he's going to be able to tell his effect on me. It makes me feel even more vulnerable than I have with any other person coming close to me during these sessions.
I blow out a long breath, my lips forming an "O" around the release, only to suck another one in when his shoulder brushes my body.
The touch felt unintentional, but I don't know that there's a single thing this guy does without determination.
"I need you," I whisper before I can stop the words from leaving my lips.
He stands right in front of me, his gaze locked on my eyes so intensely that I fight the urge to look away.
He shakes his head, rejecting me.
My eyes burn with the threat of unshed tears, but I still can't seem to look away from him, no matter how painful his rebuff is.
I hate the feel of the single tear rolling down my cheek after it breaks free from my bottom lashes.
"Please," I whisper when he reaches up and pulls the wetness from my face.
"It's forbidden," he returns, sounding as forlorn as I feel.
It makes perfect sense that he would be told to stay away from me, but the idea of outside forces controlling my personal life, especially after the connection I have to him, makes me borderline rageful.
Of course, my life would guide me straight to someone I can't have. That's the kind of luck that I have.
"No one has to know," I barter, knowing better than to even make the offer.
"Sweet, sweet Caitlyn," he whispers as he lifts his hand .
I fully expect his touch to be sexual, maybe a brush of a finger over my nipple or the slide of a thumb through my blooming arousal.
My eyes flutter closed as I feel the brush of a single finger tracing the collarbone on my right.
I suck in a breath because he might as well have pressed two fingers inside of me for the way my body responds to him.
"I ache," I confess, my eyes still closed, feeling more than a little vulnerable.
"I do too," he whispers, the warmth of his breath blooming on my skin.
When he pulls his hand back, I'm able to open my eyes, only I don't find him watching me. Instead, I see his back as he walks away.
"Ready to get down?" Roxie asks.
It takes me a moment of staring off in the direction he disappeared before I can gather enough wits to answer. When she unties me, I find my legs a little wobblier than they have ever felt before.
After getting dressed and going to look for him, I can't help the wave of disappointment I feel when he's not sitting with Lark.
I refuse to approach the other man and make a quick path to the exit, my body still on fire from the interaction with Jersey.