13. Where does that leave me?
Chapter 13
Where does that leave me?
LETTIE
“ S ay it again.”
His three-word response gives me absolute confirmation of his name. But that doesn’t mean I know who he is.
Not fully.
His name is only part of the puzzle. There’s more he’s hiding.
But for now, I can’t find it inside me to care. Especially with how he’s looking at me.
Relief, adoration, and agony have blended into one and etched themselves onto the lines of his face.
Longing to wipe away all the pain, I honor his request. “Tomer.”
A whisper of two syllables, and he’s looking at me like I’ve sung him a ballad for the ages.
He heaves a haggard exhale, but it’s not of stress or worry. Looking at him, you’d think that months of suffocation have given way to the purest oxygen filling his lungs.
Everything about his reaction is utterly heartbreaking.
Despite being devastated that he lied to me for so long, my heart wails in pain from the emotions emanating from this enigma of a man.
Although I’ll never fully know why my grandparents lied to me about being my parents, I’ve come to realize that not all lies are spoken with ill intent.
I don’t know why he lied about his name.
Nor why he hid the details of his job.
And I don’t know what else he’s hiding.
However, I believe his secrets have been killing him. Slowly and painfully, day by day. And the relief of hearing me say his name makes it perfectly clear that his deceit has left him feeling isolated and unable to escape. Buried in a tomb of his own making.
I know that feeling all too well. Perhaps that’s why I recognize it so easily in him.
It was my constant companion while growing up under a cloud of oppression.
When I learned my parents had lied to me all my life, it was yet another inescapable devastation on my shoulders.
I’ve also felt it acutely ever since I woke up chained to a wall almost a week ago.
His request tells me I hold the power to further free him from torment. Much like he saved me from that disgusting house where I was hiding in a dark, dirty closet.
“Can I please kiss you?”
He’s asking?
I don’t bother answering him. I can’t trust my words anyhow.
After exhaling shakily, I press my mouth to his. Tenderly, I slant my lips over his while running the flats of my palms over his shoulders, reaching toward the back of his neck.
He releases the most blissful sigh when I open for him. His familiar taste and touch bring waves of warmth that drive out the cold from my battered soul.
Sinking his hands back down where I placed them earlier, his firm fingertips dig into the soft flesh of my ass. He drags me forward, removing the inch of space between us. Now that I’m plastered against him, he releases his hold on my lower body and cups my face. Turning my head, he deepens the kiss. Seemingly weary of my injuries, he keeps a delicate hold of me.
He’s cherishing me.
It’s plain and simple adoration.
Through the kiss, he expresses his gratitude, silently thanking me for keeping him from running out the door in a fit of rage. With each swipe of his tongue, he thanks me for not letting his name—and whatever comes with it—drive a permanent wedge between us.
An odd thing happens to me as that realization dawns.
Now that he’s freed from his pain, mine becomes more acute. There’s only so much forgiveness in one person. By giving it to him, I’ve sacrificed myself.
How could I excuse his deceit so easily?
What does it say about me that I’m making out with him mere moments after confirming he’s lied to me about the most foundational part of him? Despite the knowledge flopping around in the back of my mind for nearly a week, my suspicions have only just now been validated. And yet... as if nothing is amiss, I’m on his lap and letting him kiss me like I’m the air that’s finally filling his lungs.
Somehow, he’s my oxygen too.
It’s maddening.
Where there was a tender acceptance and compassion for his suffering, there is now a biting force of agitation. I don’t know what to make of my reaction. I swear it makes less sense than a dentist at a candy shop.
Instead of the overwhelming numbness that has accompanied me for days, I’m experiencing a deluge of emotions, all of them slamming into me at once.
I’m hurt, enraged, mournful, confused, and most of all... aroused.
Something is very wrong with me.
Greedy to touch more of his skin, I sneak my hands under his shirt and soak up the feel of his taut flesh. Instead of tenderly caressing him, I dig my nails into his pecs and tug his chest hair.
Either he doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. He simply keeps kissing me, gently making love to my mouth.
I don’t want that, though.
I need it rough so I can pour all my conflicting emotions into him.
Each time I try to intensify the kiss, he slows me down wordlessly with a slight retreat of his lips or by moving my hand somewhere more PG.
A whimper of frustration escapes me.
Why does he get to be in control of everything?
Better question . . . why am I this lustful?
After such brutality, I assumed my libido would have shriveled up. My sex drive should be cowering in a corner the same way I did in that nightmare house.
Where’s the fear and revulsion? Shouldn’t that be driving me instead of this desperate urge to have him inside me?
“I want you,” I moan into his mouth, then grip him harder and pulse my hips so I’m dragging myself over him.
Although I can’t formulate the words, I suspect what I’m truly seeking is for our connection to return, the one that was severed involuntarily. I also need to know he still wants me.
More than anything, though, I need to know I can still do this. I refuse to go back to the old version of Lettie, who feared her sexuality and let shame control her.
If I can do this with him right now, I’ll know I’m still me.
Especially with him being someone different—quite literally—it’s even more crucial for me to reestablish who I am and who we are as a couple.
And I want to shut my brain off and feel good for five fucking minutes. Is that too much to ask?
He breaks the kiss, skimming his lips along my cheek until he gets to my ear. “Easy, sugar,” he whispers. “Slow down.”
“I can’t.” I recapture his mouth and keep begging between kisses. “Need this. Need you inside me. Need you to soothe my chaotic thoughts.”
He kisses me back, giving in to my pleas. But he’s being too sweet and gentle.
I want a good hard fuck.
“Be rough with me,” I instruct him, then return to ravaging his mouth with my tongue.
He recoils. “You can’t mean that. Just let me hold you.”
Fuck holding me.
He must see the objection in my expression because he continues. “I don’t think you’re ready, sugar. It’s too soon.”
Is he right?
He presses his forehead to mine and strokes my back while I attempt to think clearly despite this all-consuming arousal.
Is this how I’m processing my sexual trauma? I haven’t had the time or inclination to research what to expect, so I don’t know how to fight off these urges. And self-control has never been my strong suit.
Besides, I want to give in to the lust and feel good for a change.
He does not get to decide what I can handle.
I won’t force him, though. Consent goes both ways.
Maybe I can ease him into the idea, though.
I start kissing him again, slowly this time.
That plan lasts for a whopping three seconds before I’m writhing against him, dragging my needy core over the soft ridge of his cock. Taking his lip between my teeth, I bite down and give it a tug. A low growl emanates from the back of my throat.
Man alive! I’ve gone feral.
Normally, James—err Tomer—would be as hard as a rock by now. Hell, he goes half erect from me straddling him alone.
Not tonight, though.
Insecurities pepper my mind as to why.
Maybe he doesn’t want me anymore.
I’m too damaged.
Dirty.
Used.
No. Fuck that.
He doesn’t get to make that choice.
“Lettie, please stop,” he drawls. “We can’t do this.”
Perhaps the fog of arousal has made me misinterpret his refusal. There could be a logical reason to stop. “But you said the test results were all clear.” He had me do an at-home STI test the day after he saved me.
“That’s not it, sweetness. I think you’re going to regret this.”
I force my mouth shut and try to clear my mind.
If it’s not the test results, then he must not want me.
No. That doesn’t seem right.
He’s done nothing to show me that he sees me any differently since he rescued me. If anything, he’s been more affectionate.
He’s been wonderful, giving me everything I need.
If he hadn’t been, I’d have likely melted into a puddle of tears over his lies and now this rejection. But I saw how much it meant to him when I said his name. The relief and reverence in his hold on me proves it.
So he can’t be rejecting me, right?
Then it hits me out of nowhere.
The video. He saw it.
No wonder he doesn’t want me sexually anymore.
Dammit. No, no, no.
I was counting on him to pull me out of the darkness. Not send me back there.
“I do want this,” I insist.
Determined to prove it, I slam my lips to his and thrust my hips harder, hoping it does the trick.
He breaks the kiss a-fucking-gain and rasps against my mouth, “Lettie, take a break and think. Why are you doing this?”
My answer, much like my personal mantra, isn’t thought out or well-reasoned. “I don’t know. I’m confused.”
Story of my life.
Except my response isn’t entirely true. I think I’m doing this because I want him to make me feel normal again. To prove I’m not damaged. Yet I don’t know why I need that so badly, especially now.
Sadly, I can’t find the fucking words to say any of this.
Using his delicate grip around my waist, he stills my pulsing hips. My fingertips trail over his upper body like they’re searching for something while my mouth hovers centimeters from his.
All I can think about is how much I crave his skin on mine, pressing flush against me.
I need him so close I can’t feel alone anymore.
And deep enough inside me to drive away the emptiness.
He cups the side of my neck, staring deeply into my eyes. “If you don’t know why you’re doing this, it’s too soon.”
“Please,” I whine, snaking my hand between us to reach for his dick.
He shakes his head while grabbing my wrist to stop me.
Tears instantly pool in my eyes. “You don’t want me anymore,” I quiver.
“No, it’s not like that.”
I tug my hand free, sinking it lower. “Then why?”
He lets me explore for a minute before answering. “I’m afraid of upsetting you or triggering you. Fuck, Lettie . A few minutes ago, I didn’t even know where to put my hands.”
“You’re afraid?”
“I’m fucking terrified of causing you a single moment of panic or harm. When we do this, I should be in the right frame of mind. After everything that’s happened tonight, I’m not there.”
“You sure you still want me?”
“With all my heart, soul, mind, and body. Every fucking part of me wants you. But I need to take this slow too. It’s been a fucked up night. I’m barely hanging on by a thread here, sugar. Just give me some time, okay?”
My throat thickens. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to force you.”
“No. I didn’t think you were forcing me.” His expression softens, eyes twinkling with the beginning stirrings of happiness. “We’re a mess tonight, huh?”
A quiet laugh echoes in my chest, shaking my shoulders. “Yeah. We sure are.”
“One minute, you’re talking me off a ledge. The next, I’m talking you off one.”
I give him a chaste kiss, refusing to dive deeper because I suspect it’ll rev my hormones again. “I told you so.”
“Told me what?”
“We’re balancing each other like two kids on a seesaw. And I warned you I’d need you to push me up again real soon, didn’t I?”
“You did.”
“And here you are. Doing exactly that.”
“I’m good now, Lettie. I had a rough night, but I’ll be better for you. I know you need me. I’m sorry I wavered tonight. It won’t happen again.”
Channeling Papa, I grin and toss, “Well then, I’ll be seeing you at the middle point as soon as I get my shit together.”
We follow the same bedtime routine we have since he brought me home, with him staying within an arm's length while I clean up and get changed.
Before we leave the bathroom, he applies more burn ointment and changes the bandage on my upper arm. After ushering me to the bed, he grabs a container of what I affectionately think of as the wonder cream and wiggles it at me.
“Roll onto your side for me, sugar bear.”
Eagerly, I comply. This has become one of my favorite parts of the day. Despite the grizzly reminder of what I suffered, there’s something utterly magical about how this man takes care of me. I swear there’s no better feel than him caressing my body. Even the tender and sore bits.
He massages my calves before moving upward, rubbing the lotion in small, gentle circles.
“Your legs look a lot better,” he says in a hushed timbre.
When he gets to the backs of my thighs, my pulse spikes as I brace for the initial sting. Fortunately, the bite is much less intense tonight. Relief mingles with the comforting sensation of his loving touch as he swirls the cream into my tender flesh.
“You’re not flinching as much,” he states. “Is the pain improving?”
“Either that, or I’m just used to it.”
“I don’t think so. Like I said, it appears to be healing nicely.”
His tone always has hints of gravel whenever he speaks about my injuries. Shooting a quick glance over my shoulder, I catch him staring at the area where the welts are the worst. His jaw clicks under the strain of his forceful teeth grinding.
To stop him from devolving into another fit of blind fury, I turn over so he can’t see the backs of my legs. For a second, I consider flashing him my boobs to distract him. It’s what the old Lettie would do.
But I’m not the same woman anymore. Something tells me he’s not the same man. And that distinction has nothing to do with his name.
Speaking of which, my curiosity is getting to me, and my tongue is twitching. Sleep is gonna be hard to come by if I don’t get a tiny bit off my chest.
When he finally slips into bed, he attempts to spoon me from behind. I stop him by cautiously spinning around to face him, taking care not to aggravate my ribs. If I reveal my aches and pains, it’ll only wind him up further. And I meant what I said. Those bastards are not taking him from me.
I sling my arm over his waist, snuggling toward his chest. “Babe?”
He tucks one hand under his pillow, stroking my hair with the other. He loves playing with it, which is good since I love it too.
“Yes, sugar bear?”
Unprompted, my twang comes out in force thanks to the rising emotions. “As much as I’m itchin’ to rattle off a laundry list of questions and chew you up one side and down the other, I won’t do that tonight. Probably not tomorrow, either. But I gotta say somethin’. Then, I can stick a pin in it for a bit.”
He studies my expression briefly before tipping his chin, silently inviting me to continue.
“Before I get going, don’t forget I love you.”
He opens his mouth to speak, but I place my index finger over his lips to silence him. With a mischievous glint in his eye, he bites down softly on my fingertip, adding a growling sound.
There he is.
My bossy Dom who doesn’t take my crap for too long.
I continue, “While I’ve temporarily put the bigger discussion on hold about why you lied, that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.”
He nods, his features sagging with regret.
My volume remains soft as I continue, “I’m mad as a wet hen at you for lyin’ about your name and holding back details about your job. To be honest, I’m not sure how long it’ll take me to get over it.”
“You have every right to be mad at me. I’m surprised and grateful you’re still here, letting me take care of you.” He swallows, and his voice grows to a faint wisp. “I know you’ll eventually be strong enough to leave me over what I’ve done. As much as I want to, I can’t keep you forever. I’ve always known I’d have to let you go. Until then, I’ll cherish every minute you give me.”
Once the words are out, his chest seems to cave in. He closes his eyes, but even with only the light of the nearby bathroom shining in, I see him holding back the tears.
Something about the torment woven into his tone triggers a recollection from a few months ago.
The nightmare he had.
When he woke up, he said something similar about keeping me or letting me go.
I shake it off when the rest of the memory doesn’t come quickly enough to make sense of whatever connection my brain is trying to show me.
“Stop talkin’ like I’m waiting for the moment when I can leave you. That ain’t a foregone conclusion. Just because I’m fit to be tied doesn’t mean I’m givin’ up on us.”
Air leaks from his lungs in a resigned flutter. “I want to believe you more than you’ll ever know. But my name isn’t the only?—”
Once again, I resort to manually shushing him. This time, I use two fingers to pinch his lips shut. “Hush up.”
I’d bet my entire savings the rest of his sentence would have gone something like... my name isn’t the only lie I’ve told .
No good sense in hearing him say what I already know.
Not tonight.
“I know what you were fixin’ to say. But I’m still here anyway.”
The fact that I’m too terrified to be without him is only a small part of why. More than any other reason, he’s a piece of my soul I can’t see myself living without. And I don’t want to try.
Whoever he is.
I expel a shaky breath that rivals his earlier one. “Once things settle a bit, we’re going to have a calm discussion about all this. Well, you’ll be calm, but I’ll probably be cryin’ and hollerin’ at you. Just prepare for that.” Done teasing him, I add, “For now, I only have one question.”
“Go ahead, sweetness. Whatever it is, I’ll answer honestly.”
“Based on what I’ve pieced together, your real name is Tomer , right?”
“Yes.”
I hate that I thought it was another fake name, but here we are.
“I’m assuming James Harris is your club alias since everyone at Bask knows you by that name, and it’s in your membership file.”
When my words trail off, he gives me the confirmation I seek. “Correct.”
“From what I recall, you first told me your name when we met at the coffee shop. Did you decide on the drive over from the gas station that you were gonna try to get me a job at Bask?”
He pauses a second before answering, “No. I didn't think about the job until after.”
Sadly, his response doesn’t get me any closer to understanding whether I’m part of his real life or his club life.
I thought I was both.
“It makes sense you’d want to keep the two lives separate. Most people at Bask use an alias.” I swallow around my sadness. “What I’m wondering is how I fit into that equation. If James is for your club life and Tomer is for your real life, where does that leave me?”
“I said it before, Lettie, and I’ll say it again and again. You are the realist thing in my life. My name or where I work doesn’t change that. And... and nothing else will change it either.”
“I guess that’ll have to do for now. If I slip up and call you James, just let that shit go. Okay?”
With a weary sigh, he releases my hair, lowering his hand to my shoulder. Pulling me close, he places a lingering kiss on my forehead. “Thank you, sugar. Please know I had my reasons, and I never meant to hurt you.”
Am I a fool for believing him?
Probably.
After all, I am Lettie Holt. The same gal who Stella convinced holding a PhD meant you always had a perfect hair day. In my defense, I was only eight. Sadly, I believed it until I was thirteen.
Lord, it’s me, Lettie. Please don’t let this be another PhD situation.