Chapter 22 #2
I slowly let the air start to fill my lungs, my fingers clawing onto the soft fabric of his T-shirt, the sounds of the real world finally starting to come back to me.
He talks soothingly, telling me everything will be okay. Telling me he won’t let anything bad happen. Telling me that I’m safe, over and over again. Once my breathing has evened out, he speaks, hand still clasped over mine. “Panic attack?”
“Yes.”
“Okay,” is all he says. He doesn’t probe or push. “I’m here if or when you need to talk about it.”
He doesn’t know my history yet. Not because I don’t trust him with that, but because no matter how sweet and emotionally intelligent he is, it’s still a buzzkill to tell your boyfriend that your first time was when you were raped by your father.
It’s hard to explain why these occasional episodes come on so suddenly. Maddox has had me pinned up against a wall before and it made me nothing but excited. So why did I react like this now?
I know why. It’s because of what he said about watching me eat and how confronted that makes me feel. Everyone has their kinks, their turn-ons. Can I work with his?
No, I decide. If this isn’t real, then I don’t want it. I will walk away, no matter how hard that will be. I absolutely cannot be some fetish for him.
“Is that why you wanted to leave?” he asks. “Because you felt the panic attack coming on?”
“No,” I admit. “I panicked because I don’t like feeling boxed in.”
“Okay. That’s good to know for the future, baby. But I’ve had you boxed in before.” His voice is so gentle, so understanding.
I nod. “I know. And these attacks are unpredictable. But it’s…it’s when there’s conflict. When I feel trapped, like I can’t get away from something bad. Like an argument.”
So many emotions flicker over his face that I can’t help but feel sorry for him. Well, hell. I never promised him simple.
“We weren’t having an argument, El. Were we?”
“Maybe I was just having one with you in my head, or anticipating one.” His eyes narrow, and he looks so confused that I rush to explain. “You said you love watching me eat.”
“I do. It’s hot, seeing the beautiful sexy woman I care about enjoying something. What’s wrong with that?”
I take a deep breath. I have to get this out there. “Maddox, be honest with me. Is that what this is all about? Are you some kind of feeder? Do you have a fat girl fetish?”
“A fucking what?” He scrubs a hand through his hair, sounding half bewildered and half pissed. I seem to have this kind of effect on men.
“You heard what I said,” I insist, not particularly wanting to repeat it. “And I think you know what it is. It’s when a man gets sexual gratification from feeding an overweight partner.”
He just stares at me. “Thanks for the definition. And yes, I did know what it is, but I still can’t believe you fucking accused me of that just because I enjoy watching you eat. I enjoy watching all of the people I care about eat.”
“But you said it was making you hard.”
He sighs, rubs the bridge of his nose with his fingers. “Yeah. Okay. That doesn’t happen when I cook for anyone else, thank fuck, because I’m one hundred percent not thinking about getting them naked while I watch them eat. I pretty much imagine getting you naked no matter what you’re doing.”
Despite the intensity of our conversation, my pussy squeals at the thought.
“Ellie, I think about fucking you all the time. When you’re eating, when you’re not eating.
When you’re asleep, when you’re awake, when you’re with me, when you’re not…
all the fucking time. And I love watching you eat because that’s a core part of me.
You know that it is. It’s sure as fuck not a fetish.
You’re the sexiest woman I’ve ever met in my entire goddamn life, and I cannot stop thinking about you. ”
My knees wobble.
“Plus,” he goes on, “you are not ‘a fat girl.’ You are curvaceous and real and luscious, and I adore every inch of you. Are you saying that me finding you attractive is a fetish?”
He’s chewing on the inside of his cheek, towering over me. He’s visibly simmering with rage, holding it in. But strangely, I now don’t feel threatened or intimidated by him at all. That’s passed.
He looks even hotter when he’s mad, which is a deeply inappropriate thing to think.
“No. Maddox, no, of course it isn’t. I guess the fact that I thought that says more about me than it does about you. But I’ve had that happen to me before with a guy.”
I trail off, memories of one of my exes flooding me.
Especially the humiliating end to our relationship, when he told me he was simply ticking something off a list of things he wanted to try.
Apparently he’d read about it on some porn site and decided to give it a go—pursue his fetish for a fat chick.
“I’m sorry that happened to you Ellie, and I know our past experiences all leave their mark.
But I can’t be held responsible for every asshole you’ve ever dated in your life.
You have to believe me when I tell you this.
I like you for who you are. I respect you.
I think you’re gorgeous. I will very often get a hard-on watching you eat, because you’re hot when you eat.
You’re hot when you do anything. If this is really going to be a problem for you, then I don’t know what to suggest because food and eating is kind of my thing. ”
I place both my hands on his chest. “I’m sorry, Mad.
I just…I guess I felt vulnerable. This whole thing with you makes me feel vulnerable.
It’s hard for me to believe in it sometimes, and I think my brain short-circuited and took me down a dark path.
That led to the panic attack, and me accusing you of being a pervert, and now I feel like a complete cockwomble. ”
“Cockwomble?” he asks, a tiny smile on his face.
“Yeah. I don’t even know what it means, I read it in a book set in England and it sounded like a great insult. I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry I’m so messy.”
His face softens and he rests his hands on my hips. “I’m the king of messy. I can deal with mess. I care about you, El. I really fucking like you. Everything about you. There’s not a single thing I would change. I wish you could believe that.”
“So do I. And I’m trying.”
Why is it so hard though? I always thought I had a good self-image, but it seems like no matter how comfortable a girl feels in her own skin, a few negative experiences can knock that right out of her. “I really am sorry for doubting you.”
For a moment I’m worried he’s going to tell me that I hurt him too much, or that my insecurities aren’t worth the hassle of a relationship.
Instead, he dips his head low, until his mouth is close to my ear.
“Apology accepted, on two conditions. If you ever refer to yourself as a fat girl again, baby, I will spank your ass so hard you won’t be able to sit down for a week,” he says, his voice deep and smooth, pouring over my skin like melted chocolate.
“Consider this is your first and only warning.”
Oh, hell, I think my panties just burst into flames. “Yes, sir,” I manage to mutter, my mind now dominated by images of Maddox bending me over his knee and spanking me. “What’s the other condition?”
He grins. It is a devilish thing that promises a world of wickedness.
All of which I will thoroughly enjoy. “We get home as fast as humanly possible. Because while I do not have a feeding fetish, you were right on one count. I am a pervert. I want to get you naked and fuck you seven ways to Sunday.”
I gulp, and he smirks, knowing the effect he’s having on me.
Goddess, this man is amazing. I hurt his feelings, I accused him of something unfairly, I had a panic attack, and I ruined a perfectly good date with my paranoia.
Yet here he is, forgiving me, putting it behind us and suggesting another night of mind-blowing sex.
“So, I guess the most important question, baby, is your place or mine?”
“Whichever we can get to faster,” I say, more than ready.