Chapter 16
CHAPTER 16
Eric
I t wasn’t often that I found myself losing control of any kind, which I’d always seen as a weakness. But Jasmine had a way of stripping away my normal ability to remain cool under pressure and shook up my resolve in a way that no one ever had.
Then again, I’d learned in New York just how easy it was to unravel around her, to let all of the messy emotional issues that I’d always kept compartmentalized and under a tightly sealed lid, out into the open when those were things I did not discuss. With anyone.
There was something about Jasmine that was easy to open up to and trust, an undefinable something that stripped away my defenses and revealed vulnerabilities I didn’t like to think about or address—which I’d had in spades during our trip to visit my parents. It had been those irrepressible emotions she’d so effortlessly unlocked that had kept me in a chokehold for the past month, in turn making me keep my distance so I didn’t grow even more fond of her than I already had.
There was no denying that night with Jasmine had left me feeling raw and exposed and shook me up in ways I hadn’t been able to sort through. There had been a sense of panic afterward for laying myself so bare in front of her, and I was not a man prone to uncontrollable fear or anxiety.
I’d struggled with that “fight or flight” instinct, and the latter had won. Withdrawing from the situation, from Jasmine, had been the course of action I’d chosen to take. For me, it had been all about self-preservation, because I’d had no idea how to deal with the upheaval I’d felt after that very intimate night with her in New York. But in doing so, my selfish actions had hurt her, and that had been the last thing I’d wanted to do.
Looking down at her now, in the early morning light and curled so trustingly against my side, I knew I wanted to have more of a conversation today than the angry fucking that had transpired last night. Admittedly, that rough, unbridled sex had been a catharsis of sorts. A way of releasing tension and frustration and the confusion that had held me in its grip for weeks. Being with her again had felt so good, but I knew that sex was not going to resolve our underlying issues. And as difficult as it might be, mostly for me, she deserved an explanation for my distant behavior the past month.
I softly brushed her dishevelled hair out of her face, smirking at the slight, complaintive snort that left her. Gently, not wanting to wake her just yet, I eased away from her, keeping her on her side so she snuggled into her pillows and blankets, and headed out of her room.
This was the first time I’d ever been in her apartment. It was always my place, or a hotel near a venue. There was a warm, homey difference between my penthouse and this space that Jasmine had all to herself. There were pieces of art along her bedroom walls that, upon closer inspection, I saw were signed by her and dated seven or more years back.
She favored paint on canvas, it seemed. I smiled, fingers brushing over a piece that had splashes of neon against a pitch-black background. I remembered an idle comment she’d made during one of our earlier gallery dates that she no longer painted, and I wondered why when she was clearly very talented.
After perusing a few more images, I headed into the adjoining bathroom. I had no change of clothes, but washing off the remnants of last night’s activities wasn’t off the table. I showered, quick but methodical. Finished, I found a clean towel in her cabinet, dried, and made my way back to her room. She was still sleeping. I grabbed my boxers and slid them on, not bothering for now with the rest of my clothes before heading out again—toward the kitchen.
There wasn’t a full-service kitchen in Jasmine’s apartment, but there were plenty of ingredients to be found. Brown eggs, fresh vegetables, cheeses, spices when I dug through the spice rack, and bread on the counter that would toast well with some butter in a pan on the stove. Knowing how much Jasmine loved a hearty breakfast after an intense, passionate night, I set to work, enjoying the process. I think Jasmine had yet to get used to the fact that I liked to cook for her, and I realized that was in part the satisfaction that I got from doing it.
Thirty minutes in, two fat, hot omelettes were ready and bursting with vegetables and melted cheese, along with a side of some salsa and ketchup, depending on what Jasmine would want to smother her eggs in when she woke.
Having things plated, I trekked back to her room. She’d rolled over, was still snuggled to the pillows, but seemed, at least, to be a little closer to consciousness as she stirred. I smiled and walked over to her bed, sitting at the edge and touched her shoulder.
“Morning,” I murmured.
Her response? A grumpy grumble. I chuckled.
“Come on,” I coaxed gently. “I made you breakfast. Full omelette, toast, coffee too.”
“Mm…food?” That thought seemed to perk her up and she glanced over her shoulder at me. Her sleepy eyes peeked up at me through a curtain of charming bed head.
Somehow, I managed to hold in the urge to laugh. “Yes. Food. Come eat.”
The notion seemed to appeal to her, and she nodded, rolling over as I grabbed a long t-shirt from her closet and returned just as she stood up, completely naked, an unstable wobble in her legs from last night’s exertions.
“Fuck, I hate having muscles,” she grumbled, and I laughed.
“I’m sorry about that,” I replied, not sounding contrite at all for her weakened condition as I pulled the shirt over her head and she punched her arms through the sleeves. “I’ll draw you a nice, hot bath after you eat, so that should help.”
She gave me a guarded, almost skeptical look, which I probably deserved after how I’d treated her the past month. “You don’t have to do that,” she said.
I touched her soft cheek and smiled. “I want to take care of you,” I replied, meaning it.
Something in her eyes softened, and I was struck with the realization of just how little she’d probably had of anyone tending to her needs since her parents’ deaths. How she’d been forced to become strong and self-sufficient at such an early age.
I set her up comfortably at the table, coffee poured and made the way she liked, food in front of her. The first few minutes were filled with the easy silence of eating—silverware tapped against dishes, the clink of ceramic mugs against the table when picked up and put down for a drink. Jasmine’s pleased hums at the taste of the food in front of her, and my own satisfied responses at getting fed, too.
About halfway through her omelette, Jasmine cleared her throat and looked over to me. “So, about last night…”
I didn’t dodge the topic, as she clearly expected me to do. “Yes…first off, I owe you an apology,” I stated, setting my fork down on my plate. “For not speaking to you. For leaving you hanging for a month and then not clarifying anything before asking you to last night’s venue. I should have explained my actions, and I didn’t. It won’t happen again,” I vowed.
Surprise flickered in her eyes, that I didn’t hedge or try to make excuses. “Oh. Uhm. Thank you.”
I nodded, and continued, because I was far from done. “What I did was wrong. All I can tell you is that after visiting my parents, after showing you a side of me I don’t just let people see…I needed to gain some of that control back. I felt out of sorts. I couldn’t decide if confiding in you was right, or if I had pushed a boundary that I shouldn’t have with you.”
She sat back in her chair, listening and not speaking, which made it easy for me to forge ahead. “It was so easy to let you in, Jasmine, and let you stay there once you were. There’s a difference in the way I have clinically handled my parents’ ailments and the way that you…comforted me. The way that you understood and allowed them to be human that I don’t usually get with this type of arrangement.”
The space between us grew quiet, still no words from her, not that I expected any when the blame for what I’d put her through laid squarely on my shoulders. “This thing between the two of us is something I’ve not done before,” I continued, digging deeper for the right words to explain things I’ve never had to acknowledge before. “I don’t have relationships; I invest in working women. I keep boundaries, because boundaries can be controlled, and I prefer my control.”
I reached out and set my hand over the one she’d rested on the table, needing that connection with her. “But you…you make boundaries malleable. You make them less tangible. Workable. And I did not know how to react to that, other than to brick it all up, cement it down, and hope there wasn’t a crack in the foundation.”
She stared at me, wide-eyed and mute as she digested my raw and honest confession.
“So, when I invited you out to last night’s event, I had made an assumption about how the evening would go. And it clearly did not go the way I imagined.” A faint smile flickered across my lips. “I felt confused, at the way you showed up. I didn’t know how to respond to the way you behaved. But then a part of me knew that I’d earned that treatment, and I didn’t know how to fix things without giving up more of that control.”
I shook my head and exhaled a deep breath. “Last night, following you up to your apartment and what happened in the bedroom…that was me trying to maintain that control with you, but in a way that wasn’t building another wall between us. Rather, creating something where we were on the same page, if that makes sense?”
So many words, so much talking. Like the weekend visiting my parents, this was a lot. But I had not effectively communicated my feelings to Jasmine when I should have. When it was more than imperative that I let her know that I wasn’t angry, I was confused. I was trying to process the fluctuation of our dynamic. Admittedly, I was much better at action as I’d proved last night, though perhaps I still had some learning to do.
She smirked. “I like that dominate part of you, in the bedroom. But outside of it, I don’t like that tension between us.” Her gaze turned serious. “I don’t think either of us are great with words, but I should have just been upfront with you that I was upset that you’d stopped speaking to me instead of being so defiant last night in a public outing. I’m sorry about that.”
She looked genuinely contrite, and that was more than enough for me. “Do you think we can start over?” I asked.
Smiling, she turned her hand over beneath mine, and laced our fingers together. “I’d like that,” she said. “Very much.”