Shattered Dreams (Shattered #2)

9. CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER NINE

It’s late at night, and I’m in bed with Charlie. She’s got one exquisite leg slung over my waist, and her knee grazes my groin. Her breasts nestle against my chest, and her silky hair spreads over me like a curtain. She’s wearing a tee shirt and lacy boyshort panties; I’m in my boxer briefs. She curled half-atop me after our now-nightly routine of heavy petting in my shower. She’s currently in and out of a light slumber, and I’m rock hard, remembering the feel of her skin on mine, slick and wet, water sluicing over her full breasts as she trailed kisses along my collarbone.

If anyone had told me that fooling around without penetration could feel this good, I’d never have believed them. Charlie and I haven’t had sex – not yet, anyway – but I’ve come harder with her than with anyone else I’ve ever been with.

She stirs with a soft moan, and I nudge her head back a bit, exposing her throat. I drop my mouth to her neck and nuzzle, rubbing my soft whiskers over her satiny skin, something that drives her wild.

“Mmmm,” she murmurs with a shiver, then rolls off me and away, onto her stomach.

The invitation of her delectable curves draws me like a moth to a flame. I stretch my body out above hers, nosing her head to the side again to kiss her neck. She sighs contentedly. I slip my hands beneath her and cup her full breasts through her thin shirt. Her nipples pebble against my fingers, and I tease them through the fabric. She sighs again, and I lean into her, my hips pressing against her lush backside. My clothed cock grazes the hollow between her thighs. Charlie writhes beneath me. Her breathing quickens. I roll my hips into hers, and she writhes again.

A sudden sharp elbow to my ribs is followed by a panicked, “No!” I freeze, startled, then quickly move off her. Charlie scrambles across the bed, her fists clenched as she flings herself back against the headboard. Her eyes are wide, her pupils dark pools.

She’s guarding her back?

From me?

What the hell?

Charlie was enjoying herself – at least, I thought she was. Soft moans. Contented sighs. But one look at her anxious face tells me I couldn’t be more wrong.

She’s scared.

Of me.

And I have absolutely no idea why.

My eyes linger over her face, confused by her distress. I don’t understand. I kissed her neck and caressed her breasts through her clothes. We did far more than that just a few hours ago.

Then I look more closely at her eyes. Despite the fear, she looks disoriented.

And groggy.

My stomach clenches. Charlie was awake… wasn’t she?

Jesus Christ.

Did I grope her in her sleep? Was I touching her without her consent?

The truth hits me like a bullet as I realize that’s exactly what I just did.

Horror washes over me, and I shove myself backwards, putting as much space between us as I can. “Jesus, Charlie, I’m so sorry,” I stammer, my voice hoarse. “I thought you were awake. I thought –” My throat closes, and I can’t speak, can’t explain how badly I misread things. I turn away, grabbing my crutches and hauling myself across the room to the chaise.

She won’t want me anywhere near her, not after what I’ve just done.

“I’m sorry, Baby Girl. So fucking sorry. I won’t touch you again, I swear.” Her breath still comes in short bursts, but her panicked expression is fading. “I’ll call Tucker to come get me so you don’t have to be around me. My phone’s on the bedside table. I just need to get it.”

She shakes her head quickly, but I’m not sure if she means, “No, don’t come near me,” or “No, don’t leave,” and I’m too afraid of her response to ask. I watch her close her eyes and breathe deeply. I recognize the pattern – inhale for four, hold for four, exhale for four. The psychiatrist at Walter Reed encouraged her to try it when she felt a panic attack coming on.

Fuck.

I manhandled her to the verge of a panic attack.

“Do you need Lila?” I ask quietly. She shakes her head without opening her eyes. After another minute or two, her breathing’s returned to normal. She hugs her knees to her chest and buries her face in her arms.

I lie back, my arm over my eyes, hating myself for hurting her.

Again.

I don’t sleep a wink for the rest of the night, and I don’t say a single word to Mark. What can I say? “Sorry I’m such a fuck-up,” maybe? Or “I didn’t mean to freak out over literally nothing,” perhaps? Or how about my personal favorite – “Sorry I confused you with an asshole rapist.” The wounded look in his eyes is almost more than I can bear. It’s almost a relief when he throws his arm over his eyes so I can’t see them. Still, I feel pain and frustration pulsing from him in sharp waves. I spend the rest of the night with my knees drawn up, hiding my face in shame.

As soon as I’m sure Lila will be awake, I slip from the room and hurry upstairs. “Come 2 work early? REALLY need 2 talk,” I text, then turn on the shower. Before the water’s had time to warm up, she’s answered.

“Can be there in 15m. 30 if u want sugar and caffeine.”

“Definitely 30,” I reply, climbing under the warm spray.

My shower is brief and perfunctory, because showering makes me think of Mark’s shower, which in turn, makes me recall our recent shower play, inevitably leading to me replaying last night’s fiasco. I hurry to finish, quickly dressing. I don’t bother drying my hair, and my attempt at makeup goes no further than foundation and lip gloss.

I’m curled up on the white sofa in my office when I hear keys jingle down the hall. “It’s me,” Lila calls. The paper bag of pastries in one arm rustles as she enters, balancing a cardboard tray with two large coffees. At the sight of her, I burst into tears, startling myself as much as Lila. She deposits her cargo on the nearest surface and rushes to me, gathering me into her arms. “What the hell, Charlie? Are you alright?” She pulls back long enough to scan me for injuries – a holdover from medic life – then wraps her arms around me again and lets me cry.

“You should have called me sooner,” she admonishes when my tears finally subside. “Tell me what happened.”

“I’m not sure,” I admit, sitting up and wiping my eyes. “I thought I was dreaming at first. I was sleeping against Mark’s chest. I think he kissed my neck, but it’s all kind of fuzzy. I had a flashback or something. I don’t remember what he and I were doing, but I guess – I guess we were fooling around. I don’t know. All I know is that all of a sudden, I wasn’t there. I was back in that cell, and –” I stop, swallowing hard. “Anyway, the next thing I remember is fighting to get away. I came around with my back against the headboard and my hands in fists, and Mark looked confused as hell. And then appalled,” I added. “He apologized. He said he thought I was awake, and I’m pretty sure I was. I don’t know what happened.” I rub my hand wearily over my eyes. “Mark deserves someone he doesn’t have to go through this shit with.”

“Charlie, I love you, but shut the fuck up,” she says kindly. “This isn’t about anyone deserving anything. You had a flashback. You didn’t have it on purpose, and Mark certainly didn’t try to cause it. As shitty as it is, this is part of the recovery process.”

“So this is going to keep happening?” Dismay tinges my voice.

“Not necessarily, but it might. It happened to me a lot when Tucker and I first started being intimate again,” she reminds me. “We got through it, though.”

I sigh heavily. “So what do I need to do?”

“Is this the first one you’ve had?”

“Like this, yeah. I had a few early on, but never when I was with someone.”

“You haven’t been with anyone since then,” she says pointedly. “I think your best bet might be to give Willow a call and see if she can see you.”

Of course.

Willow Entwein, sex therapist extraordinaire.

I say that in jest, but it’s actually not far from the truth. I saw her earlier this year after scoffing when Lila first suggested it. At the time, I couldn’t even be alone with any male besides Mark without fighting the urge to panic. Why on earth would I possibly need a sex therapist?

But Willow turned out to be an invaluable help. By following her recommendations about intentional vulnerability, I was able to move past my fear of male touch with Tom and Tucker. I gradually relearned that not all male touch is bad. Six months ago, I’d have gone into a full-blown panic and broken out in hives at the thought of hugging either of them, despite the fact that I trust both men with my life. Now I can hug them without a second thought.

I get up from the sofa, suddenly desperate for large quantities of sugar and caffeine. “Tucker went with you to see Willow, didn’t he?” I ask, retrieving the coffee and doughnuts.

“Doughnut holes,” she says, gesturing to the bag. “Chocolate cake with clear glaze, plain glazed, and brown sugar-pecan. The coffee is medium roast with vanilla. And yes, Tucker and I went together.”

“How did that work?”

She reaches into the bag and pulls out a handful of napkins, passing a couple to me before selecting a couple of pastries. “In the beginning, it was mostly discussing what we were doing that triggered a flashback. In detail,” she adds. “Then we’d work on those scenarios in her office.” My eyes widen, and she chuckles. “Not like that. We didn’t have sex in front of her or anything,” she says. “But one of my biggest triggers was being approached from behind. You remember when I had to get stitched up,” she says, her eyes shadowing, and I nod.

At the time, Lila and I shared an apartment, and Tucker hadn’t been home from the Army for more than a couple of weeks. He’d come up behind her when she was at the kitchen sink and slipped his arms around her waist, and she’d had a flashback. She and I endured similar tortures at the hands of our captors, but one thing specific to Lila was that every rape she endured was from behind. The bastards chained her facedown on a table, and though she couldn’t see them, she knew what was coming. Tucker’s innocent hug transported her back to that horrendous place and time. She’d smashed a glass in the sink and jerked free, brandishing a shard and lunging at him. He was quick, and he caught her wrist before she’d stabbed him, but she’d sliced her hand up pretty badly and ended up with stitches. That’s when she’d started seeing Willow.

“Willow would have us practice over and over in her office. I’d stand across the room from Tucker with my back to him. He’d start talking to me from across the room, moving one step at a time under her direction. Sometimes it would take him half an hour to walk ten feet. We’d stop when he was right behind me and hold our positions, not touching. It was terrifying. I knew it was him, but that didn’t keep me from having panic attacks,” she admits, shaking her head. “It took months before I could let him touch me when I couldn’t see his face, even with both of them coaching me.”

I gulp, hoping it won’t take that long to sort things out for me. I’ve got more than enough issues as it is. “Do you think I need to take Mark with me?”

“Talk to her one-on-one first and see what she thinks. If it’s the only time it’s happened while you two’ve been fooling around, maybe not. If it becomes a pattern, you might.” She points at me with a pastry. “Eat. I’m sending Tucker over to talk to Mark this morning.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m sure he’s as upset by what happened as you are.” Guilt floods over me for letting my fucked-up life spill over into his again. “Tucker’s been where Mark is. He can help.”

I call Willow at eight o’clock, surprised when she answers on the second ring. I’d expected to get her voicemail, but her sultry voice slides through the phone. I’m even more surprised when she tells me she has an opening, and at five minutes to four, I find myself ringing her doorbell.

When I’d originally agreed to see an intimacy specialist named Willow, I’d expected someone different – a hippie, maybe, with long graying hair and flowy bohemian dresses. I certainly didn’t expect an exotic beauty. Today, she’s dressed in a white dress with cap sleeves, a narrow waist, and a full skirt. On first glance, it looks innocent and demure. Then I notice that the narrow neckline vees almost to her navel, and both sides of the skirt are slit to her upper thigh. Golden hazel eyes meet mine, and she smiles before leading me down the hall. Her dark tresses brush the small of her back, and brilliant red stilettos click on the hardwood floor. I take a seat in one of the plush red chairs in her office, facing her.

Willow smiles, her voice like warm honey when she speaks. “It’s good to see you again, Charlie. You sounded distressed earlier. Tell me what brings you to see me.”

I recount my overnight experience to her, avoiding mentioning Mark by name. Last time I was here, I’d said Mark was the one male I was comfortable being affectionate with because we’d been best friends for so long. Willow’s skeptical expression indicated she didn’t believe we were merely friends, though at the time, it was true. Our recent discovery of our attraction to each other isn’t something I want to disclose, mostly because I don’t want to admit she was right.

Willow leans forward when I’m done speaking. “What do you recall from just before your flashback? Do you remember him kissing you, or did you just find yourself panicking beneath him?”

I close my eyes, thinking back. “I remember him kissing my neck. I remember liking it.” I think harder, then shake my head. “After that, it’s a blur.”

“Would you say you were fully present during the kissing?”

I rub my hand over my face. “I’m not sure. I’d been sleeping across his chest. I remember the kiss, but it’s hazy. Sort of like trying to remember what happened the morning after you’ve had too much to drink. I have flashes.”

“That indicates you weren’t fully present. Was the encounter consensual?”

I stiffen. Mark would never touch me without consent. “Yes,” I say firmly.

“So it began consensually, when you were fully present, but at some point, that changed, and you had a flashback.” She tilts her head, waiting for my assessment.

“It was definitely consensual,” I say slowly, “but I’m having trouble recalling being fully present. I’d fallen asleep on top of him. I moved, and he kissed my neck, and I liked it. I remember rolling over and feeling his body against mine and liking that, too. But the next thing I knew, I was sure I was back in Afghanistan with a man trying to rape me from behind.”

“Your lover was behind you last night when this happened?”

I nod.

“During your captivity, were you always violated in that position?”

I swallow. “Most of the time. They could control me more easily from behind.”

“There are two possibilities,” she says, her clear gaze holding mine. “It could be that you were half-asleep and willing, but not fully in the moment. That would allow your mind to slide more easily into traumatic memories. The other possibility is that by being behind you, your lover triggered your flashback.”

I consider her words. I enjoy having Mark at my back, especially when his hot breath tickles below my ear or his whiskers graze my collarbone as he nuzzles my neck. “The first option,” I decide. “I was still groggy. It was consensual,” I repeat, “but I’m not sure how much was me thinking I was dreaming about fooling around with him, as opposed to being aware we were actually fooling around.”

“Have you experienced flashbacks before?”

“Not like this,” I admit, “but this is the first man I’ve had a physical relationship with since my trauma. The other flashbacks I had were pretty early on. Loud noises behind me or strong body odor would trigger them. Body odor still does, though not as badly as it used to.”

“What happens?”

“I have to get away,” I reply. “Immediately. If it’s a client, I claim their muscles are overly tense and send them to the whirlpool. I tell them it will loosen them up, which is true, but really, it’s because the menthol soak we use will mask their scent. If it’s someone in public, I leave.”

“What happens if you don’t?”

“I used to have full-blown panic attacks. Now, I mostly feel trapped. My heart pounds and my chest gets tight. Sometimes it makes me queasy. Once I get away from the smell, I’m okay.”

She nods, her golden gaze steady. “Have you had intercourse yet?”

I feel my face heat, but I don’t drop my eyes when I shake my head no.

Willow nods again. “The most important thing for you to do is to talk openly with your partner. He needs to ensure you’re fully present during your physical encounters, and not just after you’ve been sleeping. Because this is your first relationship since your rape, it’s possible you may find yourself dissociating if things progress. You may find that certain activities or positions trigger you. It’s critical to maintain an open line of communication during sex. He needs to pay close attention to your responses, particularly if your physical relationship advances to intercourse.

“Another thing that can help,” she continues, “is something we’ve discussed before, and that’s creating fantasies. The more you visualize healthy sexual encounters, the more you prepare your mind to enjoy them. Start slowly. Utilize all of your senses. What do you see? Are the lights on or off? What is he wearing? What are you wearing? What do you smell? What sensations do you feel? Where is he touching you, and what does that feel like? Think of it as traveling a familiar path. If you’ve already enjoyed something in your mind, there’s a good chance your body will respond in like manner.”

The last time she’d mentioned fantasizing to me, I didn’t follow her suggestion. In part, it was because I spent every night next to Mark, and I couldn’t imagine fantasizing about Blake while lying beside my – at that time – platonic male best friend. Now? I have no doubt I can work up a few fantasies. Our recent showers together have given me quite a bit of material to work with.

Of course, that’s assuming I didn’t scare Mark off by freaking out on him. Again.

At least I didn’t try to shoot him this time. If he forgave me for that, he’ll probably forgive me for last night.

Right?

I’m at the kitchen table with my head in my hands when the doorbell rings. I frown. I’m not expecting anyone, and honestly, I can’t think of anyone I want to see. I’m too busy beating myself up for hurting Charlie last night. The doorbell peals again, one quick ring after another without letting up. I only know one person who’d be that obnoxious at this hour.

Sure enough, when I open the door, Tucker’s standing there in shorts and a black polo with the name of his gym across his chest: Press On. “Brew the coffee,” he says, holding up a bag. “I brought breakfast burritos.”

He pushes past me into the house, leaving me to close the door and follow him. “I already made coffee. What are you doing here?”

He grabs a couple of napkins and puts the bag on the table near my half-empty coffee cup. He glances at it, then takes it to refill while pouring his own cup. “Weren’t you listening? I brought breakfast. This little Mexican place on Highway 160 has the best spicy burritos you’ll ever taste. Eggs, chorizo, fried potatoes, peppers and onions, roasted jalapenos, cheese, and salsa, all rolled up in homemade tortillas.” He brings his fingers to his lips in a mock chef’s kiss. “They’re life-changing.”

“Lila called you, didn’t she?” She must have. Why else would he show up here out of the blue? “Save your breath. You don’t need to yell at me. Believe me, I feel bad enough.”

He frowns, carrying both cups back to the table. “Why would I yell at you?”

Huh. Maybe he doesn’t know. “I caused Charlie to have a flashback last night.”

He pauses, his unwrapped burrito halfway to his mouth. “What do you mean, you caused it?”

I explain what happened, feeling guiltier by the second. “She was terrified of me, Tucker. As long as I live, I’ll never forget her expression.”

Sadness flickers briefly in his eyes. “Believe me, I get it.”

Tucker told me once that Lila had flashbacks when he returned after his deployment. They’d been engaged before her kidnapping. After her rescue, Lila was flown to a field hospital, then transferred stateside to Walter Reed. Tucker had been granted leave to see her, but because she was in the hospital, they hadn’t been intimate. He was discharged a few months after her release from the hospital, and their renewed physical relationship triggered her flashbacks.

His visit suddenly makes sense. Lila didn’t send him over here to yell at me. She sent him over to teach me what to do and, more importantly, what not to do.

“Tell me you have advice for me,” I say heavily. “I can’t stand putting her through that.”

He shrugs. “The first thing you have to do is stop blaming yourself. More than likely, you didn’t put her through anything. The bastards guilty of that are long-since dead. It might have been that she wasn’t fully awake, or maybe she was more tired or stressed than usual. Stress made Lila more likely to have flashbacks, and at first, everything we did was stressful. Hell, just being in the same room with me could send her into a panic attack because she felt guilty about having flashbacks with me.”

“Those fucking bastards,” I mutter. “I swear, if I knew then what I know now –”

“I’d have tortured every goddamn one of those fuckers,” Tucker quietly agrees, his deep blue eyes glittering with something dark he hasn’t let slip in a long time. The last time I saw that expression was when we’d found two of our men gutted and beheaded on a routine patrol.

The bastards responsible for that incident had paid, too.

He inhales deeply and rubs his hand over his face, drawing himself back to the present. “As far as what to do, you already know a lot from dealing with her night terrors. Don’t touch her when she’s disoriented. Give her space. If you touch her, she’ll believe it’s them, not you.” He waits for me to nod. “Talk to her in a calm, soothing voice. She won’t register your words, but your tone of voice will eventually get through to her.”

“So I just do the same stuff I do when she has night terrors?”

“It will eventually help, but Mark, waiting it out is hard. For me, it was harder than Lila’s nightmares, because her flashbacks would happen when she was with me, awake. I had a hard time not blaming myself. The key is to do what you can to prevent flashbacks in the first place.”

“How do I do that?”

“When you two are – you know, together – you’ve got to make sure she’s fully present.”

I frown. “Like the whole ‘tell me four things you see and three things you can touch’ spiel I use to make sure she’s oriented after a nightmare?”

He shakes his head. “No. It’s more about her engaging and interacting with you. She needs to make eye contact, say your name, stuff like that. Not just making sounds, because those can be misleading.” I recall how badly I misinterpreted Charlie’s soft moans last night. “If you know there’s something that’s difficult for her, make sure she’s with you, in the moment, the entire time.” He takes a deep breath before glancing at me. “Lila and I have a safe word. If she starts to feel overwhelmed, she says her word, and everything stops. You and Charlie might consider that. Have her choose a word that grabs your attention, not something like ‘Don’t’ or ‘Stop’ that she might say when she really means the opposite. Pick a word that’s out of place in a sexual context, but easy to remember.”

I nod, thinking. “Does she need to maintain eye contact the whole time?”

Tucker chuckles. “No. Charlie staring at you the entire time like a pigeon would kill the mood for both of you. You just need to be sure she’s in the moment with you.” He tilts his head. “Think about last night. At the time, it seemed normal, right? But looking back at it now, does anything strike you as being a bit off?”

“She never made eye contact,” I admit. “She’d been asleep on my chest, and I kissed her. She rolled over, and…” My voice trails off. It feels wrong, sharing details with Tucker. “She sighed when I kissed the back of her neck, but she wasn’t as engaged as she usually is.”

He nods. “That’s the stuff you have to watch for. I don’t know if Charlie’s verbal when you guys – uh – well, you know. And I don’t want to know, because she’s practically my sister. Follow her lead, and remember, active participation will keep her grounded in the present and keep you from worrying.”

His words are reassuring, but I’m not sure anything will keep me from worrying about causing another flashback.

“Pull,” I instruct Tucker, my feet planted and my gun firmly mounted. Tucker hits a button on a remote control, and a four-inch clay disc – also known as a “pigeon” – rockets skyward from a launching station ahead on the right. I track the disc, staying slightly ahead of it, squeezing the trigger when it reaches the pinnacle of its arc. I follow through with my swing, smiling in satisfaction as the clay explodes into tiny shards.

It’s the day after my visit with Willow. Tucker called last night and suggested the four of us go skeet shooting today. He knows a guy named Preston – because Tucker knows a guy for everything – who owns a hundred acres of land and has a private shooting range on his property. It’s not – and I quote – “competition approved”, but it’s pretty nice. The skeet-shooting area is a large half circle, with painted lanes indicating the individual firing stations. To the left is a standard outdoor range with pop-up targets, hay bales, and bulls-eyes. Unlike the majority of shooting ranges, however, these are fully paved, making them wheelchair-accessible. “Preston’s son is a paraplegic,” Tucker had told me over the phone. “He’s always loved shooting. He built his own range so John could shoot from his wheelchair.”

Mark had agreed when I’d asked if he wanted to go, and that’s how I find myself firing an over-under double-barrel shotgun at flat clay discs. I haven’t missed a single shot. I had a passing familiarity with guns before entering the Army, but after their marksmanship course, I was hooked. I earned my expert badge and am proficient in a multitude of weapons, though handguns are my firearm of choice. I’d be ecstatic if Mark weren’t having such a hard time.

Normally, skeet-shooting is done from a standing position. You stand with your feet shoulder-width apart and shift most of your weight to your dominant foot. Then you shoulder your gun, making sure it’s comfortably mounted and your stance is solid. Only then do you call for the skeet to be launched into the air.

Unfortunately, Mark requires crutches to stand, and crutches aren’t conducive to mounting a shotgun against one’s shoulder. To participate, he’s been forced to use a wheelchair, something he hasn’t done since his time at BAMC. The wheelchair is throwing off his balance, frustrating him. When he swings his upper body to follow the skeet with the gun, he’s tipping sideways onto one hip, and his shots are going wide. The more frustrated he gets, the worse his aim becomes.

When Mark’s next turn comes up, I stop him before he raises his gun. “Can I make a suggestion?”

He shrugs, his face impassive. “Can’t hurt. I haven’t been able to hit the broad side of a barn today.”

I squat in front of the wheelchair. “You’ve got the brakes set to ensure the chair won’t move, but you’re still off balance.”

“No shit,” he mutters, but I ignore him, instead placing one hand on each of his muscled legs. It catches him off guard, and his eyes widen. They grow wider still when I slide my hands to the inside of his thighs.

Tucker half-snorts, half-coughs behind me with a muttered, “Get a room.” I grin, then push Mark’s legs apart, pressing them into the sides of the wheelchair.

“Brace your outer thighs against the sides of the chair to stabilize your lower body. That should help your balance and leave your upper body free to move with the targets.”

He studies me for a moment, then nods. I stand back up and wait as he maneuvers himself into position and tests it, turning his upper body side to side. Only when he’s satisfied does he raise the gun, tucking it into his shoulder. “Pull,” he says after a moment.

His shot turns the clay into a cloud of dust, and his mood improves, as does his shooting. When we progress to having two clays launch simultaneously from opposite sides of the range, I’m in my element, though this is my first time skeet-shooting.

“How are you so good at this?” Tucker grumbles good-naturedly.

“Expert marksman,” Lila reminds him.

“Geometry,” I tell him. “Their trajectories will be in the same area at the peak of their arcs. If you’re patient, they’ll be close enough together that you don’t have to chase them.”

We spend all afternoon on the range, and when we head home, I’m slightly sunburned. I’m quiet on the drive, remembering last night. I’d come home after my visit with Willow, anxious to talk to Mark, yet worried about facing him. He’d been waiting for me at the dining room table.

“No workout crew?” I’d asked, a little surprised to find us alone.

“Tom’s taking Maya and Skyler to dinner and a movie, and Tucker and Lila decided to give us space to talk.”

“Oh.” I’d stood there awkwardly for a moment. “Let me just go change out of these clothes.”

When I’d returned, he was accepting a bag of food from the delivery guy of my favorite Chinese place. I took the bag from him and led the way back to the table. Then I’d poured us each a glass of tea, and we’d dug into the meal. In my experience, food often defuses tense atmospheres, making discussions less difficult by providing a distraction.

“I talked to Tucker,” Mark said finally, twirling lo mein noodles around his chopsticks. “He had some suggestions for me about helping you deal with flashbacks.”

I nodded. “I went to see Willow today.” He’d glanced at me in surprise, noodles halfway to his mouth. “The sex therapist,” I’d confirmed. “She had some suggestions for us as well.”

“Like what?”

“Talking, for one thing. Not just now, but when we’re – um – together. Communicating. To make sure I’m fully present.” I’d hesitated. “I’m really sorry about last night, Mark.”

He’d put down his chopsticks and reached for my hands across the table. “You have nothing to be sorry for. Nothing,” he’d repeated fiercely. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“It wasn’t yours, either.”

He’d drawn a slow breath. “Maybe not, but I should have been paying closer attention.”

“We learned from it,” I’d said quietly. “That’s the important part.”

“Charlie, I don’t want to make things harder for you than they already are. If being with me is bringing up bad memories –” He’d trailed off, but his meaning was clear.

I’d frowned. “So that’s it? I have one bad moment, and you’re ready to throw in the towel?”

Pain flickered in his eyes. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

I’d leaned back, my hands still in his, studying his troubled expression as I scrambled for an analogy. “Do you remember having your burns cleaned when you were in the hospital?”

His hands tightened noticeably. “Of course.”

“It looked very painful.”

His jaw flexed. “It was.”

“Burns are one of the most painful injuries a person can endure. One of the worst things about them is that you have to cause more pain to help the person heal. You have to scrub away the damaged tissue to allow the healthy skin underneath to flourish.”

He’d kept his expression blank. “What are you saying, Charlie?”

“Sometimes, healing is painful. I’m okay with that, because the benefits are worth it.” I’d squeezed his hands lightly. “I’m not ready to call it quits because of one flashback.”

“You were terrified of me,” he’d said softly. “I saw it on your face.”

I shook my head. “I was afraid, but not of you. I was afraid of things in my past.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he repeats.

I’d stood up then, pushing back from the table, gathering our half-full containers and sticking them in the refrigerator.

He’d watched me, his brows furrowed. “What are you doing?”

“Communicating,” I’d answered. “Making sure you know I’m fully present.” Then I’d peeled my shirt off and tossed it on the floor, meeting his surprised gaze. My leggings followed as he’d watched with hungry eyes. I’d paused, dressed only in a white lacy bra and panties. “I’m going to get in your shower now,” I’d announced, unfastening my bra and letting the straps slide down my arms. “I’d like it very much if you’d join me.” Then I’d turned away, slipping my bra the rest of the way off and holding it on one fingertip before dropping it to the floor as I walked away. I hadn’t even cleared the kitchen when his chair scraped backwards across the floor and crutches thumped rapidly across the floor behind me.

We’d spent a long time in the shower. A deliciously long time.

Mark’s deep voice from the passenger seat breaks my reverie. “What are you smiling about?”

“Thinking about last night,” I answer, glancing at him, and he winks.

“What’s the wink for?” I ask, turning into our driveway.

“The shower I’m about to take. You’re more than welcome to join me.”

I shut off the engine. “That’s a very tempting offer.”

He grins. “Believe me, I’ll make it worth your while.”

He does.

Twice.