23. Baldo
“What the fuck, Brook?”
She missed my groin by mere inches, but it’s not the narrowly avoided pain that riles me up.
It’s the utter confusion.
“You have a fucking safe word. No need—” The words die on my lips when I take in the scene.
Brook scrambled off the table and removed her blindfold, but she didn’t run any farther. She’s standing there, trembling, tears rolling down her cheeks.
The sight is a punch into my stomach and a vise on my chest. I’m not fucking sure what happened. Again.
My immediate instinct screams to take her in my arms. Should I? Can I?
“Brook, baby…” I approach slowly.
A sob escapes her, her shoulders trembling. “I’m sorry.”
The sound kills any hesitation in me. Fuck that. I’ll gladly have her kicking my balls if that makes her hurt disappear.
I erase the distance between us and open my arms. “Can I?”
She nods, and as soon as she buries her face into my chest, she starts crying.
I hold her and murmur her name, my mind misfiring and my heart hammering. I don’t know what to do, because I don’t know what happened.
I can’t force her to talk when she is like this. But the agony of waiting to find out is excruciating. It coils around my spine like a poisonous snake. My hands itch, relentless energy zapping through me.
I ignore it, staying still for her. Fuck, it’s hard.
I need to fix it. Whatever it is.
Selfish prick. She needs me to be here for her in whatever way she deems appropriate. I know that, and yet the helplessness drives me mad.
“You must think I’m crazy.” Her shoulders continue to shake.
I press my lips against her temple and hold her.
And I wish I wasn’t a coward and could kiss her.
She is a mess, at her most vulnerable, and here I am protecting my fucking heart. Selfish and helpless. God, I have never hated myself more than now.
“You’re not crazy. Could you tell me what I did?” I rein in my need for control and speak softly.
She sighs. “You said I can take it.”
Okay, that didn’t clarify much, but I sense she might continue so I remain silent. All the while I want to interrogate her and understand what triggered her reaction.
“I don’t know how to say it.”
Her admission fills the air with such gravity, I’m glad I’m holding her because it would knock me down.
Several beats pass as I hate myself, regret I ever went to New York, and feel grateful that I did.
Because I know I can fix it for her. Whatever it is, I’ll fix it. Those loser boyfriends couldn’t, but I can.
I must. Even if I have to burn the fucking world down.
Brook steps back and takes a deep breath. She squares her shoulders and looks at me, but her eyes are a void. Like she doesn’t even see me.
I panic for a moment, because the vulnerable woman is gone and I can’t stand to lose her. Not yet.
“Almost ten years ago, I was assaulted.”
The words crash my world to the ground, dissolving every value, every security, every ounce of control I ever had.
I want to demand answers, draw blood, fucking kill someone, but all I do is stand frozen. The riot in my head prevails, as does the need to act.
The bitter, ugly, painful stillness of the moment is breaking me, but I need to let her lead this conversation.
That determination alone must be enough of an action for now.
She seems so far away, like she retreated to this other universe where she is strong enough to deal with the past.
“Give me a moment, please.” She raises her index finger.
“Of course.” The sound rasps through the lump in my throat. She can have all the time she needs to collect herself. Though she seems eerily calm.
She gives me a shy smile that I think is meant to reassure me. Of what I don’t know. And then she surprises me when she walks away. To the bathroom.
I hear water running, and when she emerges she’s wearing my black bathrobe. Of course, she won’t have this conversation half naked. Idiot.
But on some fucked-up level, I’m pleased she chose to wear my robe. Like in the absence of my touch, I can extend my protection through the garment.
“Can I have some water?”
It takes me a moment to register what she’s saying.
“Of course.” Fuck, I have no other vocabulary. What I have is a growing chest pain, a lack of oxygen, and an enduring need to kill someone.
I fill a glass with water, and when I turn back she’s sitting on the sofa. Through the mayhem in my head, I didn’t even hear her move. I’m not ready to listen to her. The realization is like a knife in my intestines, carving.
Moron. Listening is exactly what she needs.
She takes the glass from me and folds her legs under herself.
When I don’t move, she meets my eyes with an annoyed expression. “Sit over there.” She gestures to the other sofa.
The wound in my guts bleeds more because that’s too far from her, but I take the seat.
My ass barely hits the soft cushions when Brook starts talking. “Do you remember TJ, the checkout bagger at the supermarket who used to joke with us?”
I nod mindlessly, vaguely picturing the dude, but Brook doesn’t look at me and launches into a clinical recount of the facts.
A gruesome, gut-wrenching memory that almost feels like a scene from a movie or a book, not a true recollection.
At one point, I can’t stand it anymore and I jump up.
The moon casts a silver glow over the apartment, the dim lights mocking me as I pace, my blood boiling.
Brook speaks in a monotonous voice, void of emotions. Occasionally, she pauses to collect herself.
I don’t know how she can retell this with such aloof coolness, but then she’s lived with the story for God knows how long. How did I not know about this?
I’m still in the first stage of grief. The anger is real, burning at the base of my spine, spreading like wildfire.
When she finishes, she drains the water and puts the glass down.
“Where is he now?” I bark, and hate myself for that, but Brook is completely immersed in her detached persona and doesn’t even flinch.
“I don’t know.”
“But the police got him.” I continue pacing. It does nothing to calm me down.
“I never went to the police.”
I almost tear a muscle as I whip my head to her. “What do you mean?”
She sighs. “I didn’t want to go to the police. And please don’t make me explain why. The reasons are irrelevant after all this time.”
After all this time. She lived with this for… Did she say almost ten years? All my thoughts of revenge and rage come to a halt.
“When did it happen?” I force the words out, but I know the answer.
I know it.
With a clarity that lifts the doubt that has plagued me for a decade.
For years I tortured myself, trying to figure out why she hadn’t come. Why she chose our family over me.
She didn’t choose. The choice was made for her. Was forced on her.
We stare at each other as she nods slightly, confirming.
I fist my hands.
I punch the backrest of the sofa.
I pick up a large lamp from the side table and smash it to the wall.
I holler like an animal, almost losing my voice when Brook’s words cut through all the madness to me.
“That man destroyed enough. Don’t destroy your house because of him.”
Our eyes meet again. Such contrast. A wild, rabid dog to a graceful swan. I need to do something. Anything.
Brook stifles a yawn. She must be exhausted. Fucking hell, I need to get out of my head.
“You’re tired. Let’s get some sleep.” I sound lame, misplaced, even to myself.
“What about the night of orgasms you promised?” She stands up and sheds the robe off her shoulders.
“No, no, no.” I dash to her and lift the robe. “Not right now, baby. There is always tomorrow.”
She pushes me away. “Oh, so you were all eager to fix my orgasm problem, but now when you know just how damaged I am, it’s too much work for you?”
I drop the robe. I can’t recall if there has ever been a time when I was at such a desperate loss for words. For a reason. For a clear plan of action.
“Brook, that’s not… I’m sorry…” I rake my fingers through my hair, squeezing at the scalp. “I don’t know what to—”
“I don’t know either, but you can’t retreat now. I didn’t tell you so you could treat me like a victim. I don’t want you to feel sorry for me. I need you to fuck me.”
I stare at her for the longest moment.
She lifts her chin, her eyes blazing with determination. She opens her mouth and closes it. She shuts her eyes and takes a long breath in. Then she looks at me with resolution.
“I can take it.”
She says the words that triggered her before, and I understand her need to take over that narrative.
Not only to take it, to rise above it, to exorcise the victim in herself and reclaim her body.
I draw pleasure from pleasing others, but the form she needs is not in my usual arsenal. At least not before multiple orgasms. Then yes, then I fuck like it’s nobody’s business, to chase my release.
“Are you sure?”
She huffs in frustration. “Can you just fuck me? Not a pity fuck. Just take me like you only care about yourself. Be rough with me, so I… I don’t know, so it’s… you.”
So I can erase any traces of him. Is that what she is saying?
I can give her that. I think.
I crack my neck and file the rage away for later. I’ve always been good at compartmentalizing.
“On your knees, on the bed. Now.” I growl and, fuck, my dick welcomes the invite.
A jolt of desire flashes through her face, but instead of obeying, she lifts her chin again. “No.”
I frown, but then it dawns on me. To achieve what she wants, she can’t consent. Fuck, I hope she is right, and this won’t break us all over again.
What turned you on, Brook? My little caveman performance downstairs, or my hand on your throat earlier?
My taunt from before flashes through my mind. Both, but your hand more. She needed this all along.
“Don’t make me ask again.” Fuck, this is the last scenario I want to play tonight, but it’s not me calling the shots right now.
“No.”
I pounce, but she is faster and slips to the side, escaping me around the coffee table.
Reaching for her, I grab her hand and jump over the table. It cracks and splits, which gives her an advantage and she slips away.
She darts around the other sofa, her scent teasing my senses, pulling me deeper into the chase. My heart hammers against my ribcage, a relentless drum of adrenaline.
I kick at the shards of the coffee table and reach for her, but she jumps over the back of the couch, her figure a flash of desperation and grace in the vast room.
She glances back at me. Fear but also goading are etched across her face, and for a moment I want to stop this madness.
As if she understands my hesitation, she picks up a decanter from the cabinet beside her and throws it at me.
The chase is a language, every move a word, and she is determined to be understood. And I might not exactly speak the same language, but on some level, I need this too.
To chase her for all the years I longed for her. To catch her and finally make her mine. Even in this fucked-up scenario.
My resolve hardens, and with a burst of energy, I close the distance and lunge at her. She yelps and tries to wiggle out of my grasp, but this time I have both my arms around her.
She kicks at me as I carry her to the bed. I drop her and immediately cover her with my body.
She lies on her stomach, trapped under me, fighting like a lioness.
My good girl.
She elbows me in the ribs, and I groan and twist her arms behind her, trapping them between us.
I kick her knees apart, gaining me better access. She struggles under me, but slowly loses her energy.
Holding both her wrists in one hand, I use the other to pull a condom from my pocket, unzip my pants and release my painfully stiff cock.
But I can’t completely obey her wishes, and I first probe her with my fingers between her folds.
Fuck, she is wet.
Despite her struggling against me, I somehow sheath myself, lift her hips and drive into her with such force that it propels her forward.
I piston in and out of her with a punishing tempo. Like I can fuck the memories from her. From me.
Like I can chase not only my release, but all the demons with every brutal thrust. Savage attack. Redeeming push.
“Harder,” Brook cries, bracing her hand on the headboard.
My fingers are bruising her hips. Our skin glistens with perspiration. The slap of our bodies echoes through the room.
And then she tightens around me, her heat gripping my cock tight. And with my name on her lips, she comes, and I follow shortly after.
I collapse beside her, and our eyes lock. Spent and beautiful, she stares at me with a ghost of a smile lingering on her flushed face.
I’m spent and angry. But I keep the sizzling fire under control, because right now I can’t leave her here. I’ll wage my war later.
I should say something. I want to make sure she is okay.
Instead, I close my eyes, because this night has changed too much, and all the pieces are only now slowly settling in.
We’ve just redefined our mutual language, and I have no words. I’m not sure if I can… if I want to speak.