Letter Twenty-Eight #2
The ache inside me grew stronger—that burning mix of fear and longing, the need to be seen and accepted for who I really was. I thought of Nic’s words again: “You’re exactly right for each other.” And I didn’t think I believed it.
But I’d given you other truths—the bruise on Halloween, the time I’d stabbed myself with the pencil in kindergarten—and you’d accepted it all, without judgement or shock. So maybe those were signs. Maybe my dad was right about this, too.
I swallowed, pulse pounding in my throat.
If I asked you for this twisted thing, you might make me feel the way Willoughby had when I’d asked him: like I was a freak for asking.
Or like Michael had when I’d broached the topic at Thanksgiving: like it was wrong of me to want it in the first place.
And, yeah, it would crush me so much more if you did it.
It would completely eviscerate me. But at least I’d know.
If you could handle the darkest pieces of me.
So I looked you in the eye, and I said it: “Put your hand around my throat.”
Your head snapped back, eyebrows pinching together. You hadn’t expected that. “What?”
“Put your hand on me like Greer did,” I repeated, somehow managing to keep my voice even.
Your expression hardened. “I broke the hand he used to touch you like that.”
“This is something I really want, Casey.”
Your gaze dipped to my throat a second before returning to my face. “You want me to choke you?”
“Don’t choke me. Just…apply a little pressure. Make it hurt a little bit.”
“You asked Willoughby for this?”
Among other things. “Yes.”
You studied me, eyes narrowed. “Can we talk about why you want it?”
My heart sank. Of course you couldn’t handle this. I should’ve known better. “Does it matter?”
“Well, are you asking because you want to hurt yourself with it? Or are you asking because you think it might give you back some of the power and control you lost with Greer?”
“Look, if I wanted to analyze all the twisted reasons I’m asking for this, I’d bring it up with my therapist, okay? Forget it.”
I tried to lift up.
But you nudged me back down, your palm heavy against my chest. I tried speaking again, but my voice stuttered to a halt as you climbed on top of me until your body hovered above mine, knees astride my hips.
My heart thrashed uncontrollably—from the anticipation of what came next, the memory of Greer doing the same thing, or the proximity of you, I’m not sure. Probably all three.
Painfully slow, your hand drifted up my chest to my throat.
I felt a slight tremor in my own hand when I reached up between us to grasp your wrist, my fingers fluttering over your bracelets.
Our gazes remained locked, yours deep but devastatingly soft.
No malice, no deadness, no darkness at all.
Just you. Just there. Just binding us together.
Assurance—that’s what it felt like. A promise: I won’t hurt you. I’m here.
My breath hitched as your fingers curled tenderly around my neck—and again when your palm settled over my windpipe.
For one breathless second, you lightly traced my jaw with your thumb.
And then, with no warning at all, that thumb dug into bone, you tilted my head back into the mattress, and your grip tightened.
Not so much that it hurt, exactly, just felt uncomfortable and tight—too tight—like being wedged in a hard place.
Like being held down. There’s no way you could’ve known, but it felt exactly like that initial grip of Greer’s, when I’d first begun to panic.
With you, though, I knew not to panic, not to fear. I lay perfectly still, taking solace in the discomfort, in the firmness of your grip, in your strength.
Could you feel it?
My pulse hammering? The extra effort it took me to swallow? All the fight seeping out? Me letting go?
This was me, giving the darkest piece of myself to you.
Not just letting you see it, letting you hold it.
Reshape it. Mold it into something brand new.
A different moment, a less scary one, where I didn’t feel stripped of all power—I chose to let you take it.
Where I didn’t feel humiliated or trapped or hated, but held and seen and safe.
You gave me so much more than power or control. You replaced the memory of that night with a better one so the old memory couldn’t hurt me anymore. In the end, that’s all I really wanted. Not to be hurt. Not to take it too far. Not to traumatize myself all over again.
To be set free of the pain.
Some wounds cut too deep.
The tears you saw in my eyes weren’t tears of sadness, Casey. They were tears of relief.
“It’s okay,” you whispered, and maybe I wanted that more—to hear those words. To hear it wasn’t messed up for me to need this. To know someone got me. Someone finally understood.
You pressed your forehead to mine.
I squeezed your wrist.
“It’s okay,” you whispered again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
Maybe you understood something the other two never did. That, sometimes, we need to recreate our trauma because it’s the only way we can truly begin to heal.
I let you go on another minute or two before finally whispering, “Stop.”
Immediately, you withdrew your hand, and I took a deep breath. But you didn’t stop there. You weren’t done with me yet. You dropped your head, pressed your mouth to the base of my throat, and then: the soft scrape of your tongue, all the way up to my chin, followed by a kiss.
This, too—again and again and again.
Everywhere your hand touched, your mouth redressed. The tears kept flowing, they coated my face, some slipped down my chin—and you took those, too. You claimed them all. You lapped up my tears with the same reverence you’d kissed my bruise on Halloween.
You moved to my mouth next, coaxed it open with your tongue, and kissed me deep. The salty tang of my tears met your toothpaste, and it should’ve tasted strange—wrong, even—but somehow it was perfect. Raw and real and us.
And I didn’t plan what happened next. It wasn’t some strategic choice, just a spark catching fire in my chest. The wild certainty that if I gave this part of myself to anyone, it had to be you.
Not because you’d earned it. Because no one else had ever made me feel this safe.
Because you saw me and didn’t flinch. Because you’d held the darkest piece of me in your hand, and you stayed.
When I slipped my fingers down the front of your pajama pants, your warm skin contracted beneath my touch.
“Wait, wait, wait,” you said, drawing back, breathless. “What are you doing?”
“I’m ready.”
“But shouldn’t we—shouldn’t we talk about what just happened?”
“After.” I kissed your chin. “Take off your pants.”
“Wait,” you said again, climbing off me. You sat up, and I did, too. “I have to—I want to make sure you’re okay.”
“I’m fine,” I said, taking your face in my hand. “I promise.”
“And you’re absolutely sure you’re ready?” you asked, searching my gaze.
“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”
You kissed me again, then pulled back. “Shit. I don’t have a condom.”
I leaned over the bed, reached for my nightstand, and plucked one from the drawer. “I’ve got you covered,” I said, holding it up between us.
You snatched the gold foil packet from my fingers. “This is one of mine. Did you—?”
I pulled your mouth against mine to shut you up, only pausing to yank the camisole over my head. Your bare skin against mine—that’s all I wanted. Craved. Needed.
Worse than I ever needed pain.
Maybe you needed it, too, because your hands were on me instantly. Gripping. Pulling. Spreading my legs over your lap. You crushed my body to yours, and it was pure ecstasy—the dig of your fingers, the heat of your chest, the groan you let out when our bodies met, skin to skin.
You kissed me like you were starving—shoulder, collarbone, neck—before sucking the skin at the base of my throat into your mouth, so hard that I gasped. Yes.
I drew back. “You don’t have to, like, be gentle or anything—during. I can take it.”
You swept your lips across my jaw. “Maybe I want to be gentle.”
My throat squeezed at the thought. “I’m just saying, you can—you can go harder.”
“If I do that, it’ll end rather quickly.” A small smirk at the corner of your mouth, your hands still trailing over me. Slower now. Teasing. “I’d like to take my time. Do you have to micromanage everything, or are you nervous?”
“I’m not nervous.” I gave a little laugh that definitely wasn’t nervous, either.
“Elliot, your hands are shaking.”
I hadn’t realized, but you were right. My fingers quivered against your face.
You shifted beneath me, hands sliding up my ribs, fingers brushing over the curve of my breasts, and it was only then that I felt it. A tremor. The unsteadiness of your fingers as they coasted up my body. You cupped my jaw. “It’s okay, darling,” you whispered. “Mine are, too.”
“What are you so nervous about? You’ve done this before.”
Your eyes searched mine. “I’ve never done this before.”
We fell back onto the mattress, my legs still locked around your torso, and you kissed me everywhere. Hot, molten kisses.
Kisses meant to savor. To worship. To claim.
The hollow of my throat—you lingered there a moment, breathing me in, letting your mouth rest where my pulse raced.
Over my collarbones—hot and searing, branding yourself into my skin.
Down, down—lips dragging, slower than I could stand.
A bite to the curve of my breast—I sucked in a breath and arched into it, softly moaning when you soothed the sting with your tongue, as if to silently tell me, This is mine.
The delicate slope of my ribcage—you kissed that, too. A kiss at the dip above my navel—tender, featherlight. Another at my hipbone—rougher, weighted, hungrier than the rest.
I panted, barely hanging on, growing more impatient, fingers curled tightly in your hair, holding you to me.
“Casey,” I whimpered.