Chapter 6
Hands braced on the bathroom vanity, Miles let his head hang as he caught his breath. His body was still shaking. His legs were weak. He felt boneless and empty and wrung out in the best way possible.
But he didn’t feel satisfied.
He wanted more.
More of Tabitha’s sharp and sweet taste on his tongue.
More of her silky skin under his fingers.
More of her tight pussy milking his cock.
His hands fisted and he realized that while he’d tossed her belt at her like some asshole throwing money at a prostitute, he still had her thong wrapped around his other hand.
Lifting his head, he stared at his reflection in the mirror. “Fucking idiot.”
He yanked the thong off his hand but couldn’t make himself whip it aside. Instead, he laid it on the corner of the counter, but the contrast of black silk on white marble only served to remind him of the way Tabitha had stood in front of him in nothing but it and her shoes, that tiny dark triangle and slim straps a stark contrast against her skin.
Movements jerky and quick, he cleaned himself up, then washed his hands. Dried them. Counted to fifty. Then to one hundred.
Then to one hundred again.
It wasn’t just so he could try and gather his bearings. Or because anxiety was welling up inside of him and counting usually helped him shove it back down again.
It was to give Tabitha time to wrap herself up in her skirt, button her blouse and saunter herself right back out of his life.
He counted to one hundred again. Just in case.
Then he opened the bathroom door and stepped into the hallway.
Only to mutter a low, dark fuck, turn and snatch her thong off the counter.
He padded down the hallway to his bedroom, refusing to wonder why he once again wrapped her underwear around his hand, like it was a goddamn prize he’d won.
One he couldn’t part with.
In his room, he emptied his pockets, then changed into a pair of gray sweats. He needed to lock up and turn off the lamp in the living room. Get a drink of water. He was amped up and antsy, anxiety pressing, pressing, pressing against the outer corners of his mind. Maybe he’d have a beer instead. Watch something mindless on TV.
Except his television was in the living room.
And he usually sat on the couch while he watched it.
The couch where he’d lounged while Tabitha had stripped for him. The couch he’d leaned his head back against while he’d feasted on her pussy. The couch he’d banged into the wall while he’d pressed her head down and fucked her like an animal.
He’d just bought that couch eight months ago.
Now, thanks to his fucking ego, he was going to have to buy a new one.
He stalked down the hall only to slam to a stop when he saw his living room.
Tabitha was still here.
Still naked.
Fast asleep on his couch.
Something inside of him rose, like the morning sun. Warm and soothing. Something suspiciously like joy.
Something idiotic like hope.
Staring at her, he absently rubbed a hand over the ache spreading in his chest.
Jesus, but she was beautiful. Her skin glowed in the moonlight, all that softness he wanted to devour. Her hair was a tangled mess, bright against the darkness of his couch. Her expression relaxed, her lips parted slightly.
Her shoes still on.
She’d stayed.
It didn’t mean anything except that he’d made her come three times—and hell yes, you’d better believe he’d counted—and she was exhausted.
She’d stayed.
She’d felt safe enough to fall asleep on his couch even after he’d wrapped his fingers around her throat. After he’d fucked her quick and rough.
She’d stayed.
Even though he’d walked away, leaving her naked on her hands and knees.
Like none of it had meant anything to him.
Like she meant nothing.
Was worth nothing.
Shame suffused him, taking up all the space in his head until it felt fuzzy. Soaking up all the air in his lungs. His chest tightened with an all-too familiar feeling. That earlier anxiety built, growing bigger and bigger, filling every pore.
Grinding his back teeth together, he fought against it. Not another one. Not now. But his body didn’t give a shit that Tabitha could possibly wake up and find him at his lowest. His mind didn’t care that these attacks were happening more frequently. Lasting longer. Getting worse.
He couldn’t stop it.
His breathing grew choppy. His fingers tingled painfully as they went stiff, curling like claws. Cold touched the back of his neck. Prickled at the base of his spine.
Leaning his back against the doorframe, he concentrated on taking his next breath. Then the next. But they felt shallow. Insufficient. He grew dizzy.
Heart racing, he slid down the doorframe to a crouch, rested his elbows on his knees, his hands dangling between them. Mouth open, head tipped back, he shut his eyes. He knew he was breathing, knew damn well he was getting enough oxygen, but it still felt like he was going to pass out.
His entire body prickled painfully. Small, uncontrollable tremors shook his body. He thought he heard someone saying his name, a soft whisper of sound, familiar and soothing.
But this wasn’t one of his dreams, the one he still had several times a week. The one where his mother would call his name.
The one where he couldn’t save her.
This was real. And the voice, while still soft, still patient, was getting louder.
“Miles.”
His eyes flew open, and for a moment, he couldn’t understand what he was seeing, couldn’t figure out how Tabitha had gone from sound asleep and naked on his couch only moments ago to kneeling before him wearing only her shirt.
Jesus. How long had he been sitting there, falling apart?
Worse. How long had she been kneeling there calling his name?
Nausea rose in his throat, combined with his panic, threatening to choke him. He wiggled backwards, trying to get away from the sensations clawing at his body, as if he could disappear into the narrow wooden frame at his back.
As if he could somehow escape this situation. Hide from this humiliation.
“I know it must feel awful,” she said gently. “I’m so sorry you’re going through this.”
He shut his eyes again, needing to get away from the sympathy in her gaze. The understanding in her voice.
“I’m here,” she continued. “I’m not going anywhere. Whatever you need, I’m right here.”
It was too big of a temptation, those words coming from her. He was too far gone to worry about anything other than somehow getting through this.
Surviving it.
He was too weak to resist her.
Too selfish and afraid and desperate not to take advantage of her kindness.
Too alone not to accept her comfort.
Opening his eyes, still gasping for breath, he reached out his shaking hands and clutched hers. Held on tight.
Maybe too tight, but she didn’t wince. Didn’t complain.
She held on.
And she stayed.
She stayed there, right there, like she said she would, kneeling before him. He kept his eyes open and on hers. The combination of her hands in his, their gazes locked, steadying him.
His breaths started to slow. To deepen. And he realized he was copying the cadence of her breathing—long inhales through the nose, a pause, then a longer, slower exhale through the mouth. Another pause.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Bit by bit, the roaring in his ears dulled. Little by little, the tightness in his chest loosened. Centimeter by centimeter, his shoulders lowered.
“That’s it,” Tabitha murmured. “You’re doing great.”
He would have snorted at that, but he was afraid if he made a sound, it would come out a whimper. Still, it helped when she talked, even when she was spouting bullshit, her low, gentle tone giving him something else to concentrate on.
As if she knew that, she kept talking, praising him for the simple act of breathing, promising him he was going to get through this.
But mostly, she repeated the one thing he needed to hear most.
I’m here. I’m here. I’m here.
His breathing steadied.
The shaking eased into slight tremors.
Finally, the panic receded.
“Okay?” she asked.
He managed a nod but could no longer hold her gaze.
She squeezed his hands gently. “Good.”
And she started to stand.
The panic came back, hitting him like a freight train. Rearing forward, he gripped her hands tighter. Stopping her.
Hurting her.
Her flinch was quick, but he saw. He tried to loosen his hold, but his body wouldn’t cooperate. He opened his mouth to apologize, but his throat was constricted with shame and no words came out.
“It’s okay,” she said, and he had no idea if she was absolving him of causing her pain or trying to comfort him.
He didn’t deserve either of them.
“It’s okay,” she repeated, rubbing her thumbs along the backs of his hands, the gentle back and forth easing the tension. He loosened his hold. “I’m not leaving. I’m just going to get you some water.”
But she didn’t try to tug free again.
She waited for him to let her go.
And Christ help him, he couldn’t do it.
He was even more fucked up than he’d thought.
This entire night had been about getting over her.
Letting her go, once and for all.
Forcing his fingers to straighten, he slid down so that he sat on his ass and once again leaned his head back against the doorframe.
Once again shut his eyes.
Unable to watch her walk away—even if it was just to his kitchen.
He heard the faint sound of one of his kitchen cabinet doors being opened then shut; then another, followed by water running.
Then the click-clack of high heels on hardwood. Getting louder.
Coming closer.
He opened his eyes as she crouched before him, her knees together and angled to the side, the hem of her shirt barely covering the curve of her naked ass.
“Here you go,” she said, holding the glass of water up to his mouth.
He wanted to scoff. To grab the glass and gulp it down, to show he was a grown-ass man capable of taking care of himself and everyone he cared about.
But he didn’t feel strong, he felt weak as a baby. And when he lifted his hands, they still trembled so much, she had to wrap her hands around his on the glass to steady them. Kept them there as he drank deeply.
When the glass was empty, she set it aside. “Do you want to sit here a little longer?”
He shook his head. She straightened and held her hands out to him. Another gesture that should piss him off, but he’d learned his lesson with the glass, so he didn’t scowl or try to leap to his feet on his own.
He took her hands, gently this time, and let her help him up.
But when she tried to tug him toward that damn couch, he let go of her hands, turned slowly, then shuffled down the hall.
She didn’t follow. Nausea rolled in his stomach. He didn’t want her to follow him. Didn’t need her kindness or patience.
She’d already seen him at his lowest. Had helped him through the worst of it.
He’d get through the rest on his own.
He flipped the bathroom light on, started the shower, then glanced in the mirror and saw Tabitha’s reflection as she stood in the doorway.
She stepped into the room. “Is it okay if I help you?”
Her patience and kindness almost did him in. He nodded and she knelt before him, pulling his sweatpants down his legs. Let him set his hands on her shoulders, using her to keep himself steady as he stepped out of them.
She stood and reached for her thong wrapped around his hand, but he curled his fingers around it, not ready to give it up yet.
Not ready to admit to even himself how badly he needed to hold onto it.
He stepped into his shower, pulled the curtain closed, then pressed the hand with the thong along the tiled wall and hung his head under the hard spray, letting it wash over him. The water was hot, each drop hitting his sensitized skin like a pin prick. Steam filled the air. A minute passed. Then two. Then the shower curtain was pulled open.
And a naked Tabitha stepped in behind him.
He lifted his head, watching her as she shut the curtain, then reached around him for his shower pouf and gel. Water dotted her hair and face while she squirted the gel onto the pouf, then worked it into a lather.
Goosebumps covered her shoulders, chest and arms and he instinctively stepped forward as he reached for her, to turn her under the warmth of the water, but she stopped him in his tracks when she pressed the sudsy pouf against his chest.
And started washing him.
His heart thudded, but unlike a few minutes ago, it wasn’t racing erratically. It was slow. Steady.
His chest ached, but not painfully.
Sweetly.
She washed his chest, then his torso, rubbing in light circles across his abdomen. The nausea in his gut settled. She lifted his empty hand and washed his fingers, his palm, his knuckles, then skimmed the pouf up to his shoulder before gently lifting his arm so she could wash his armpit and down his side.
Then she ran it across his collarbone to repeat the entire process on his other arm and side, avoiding her thong, now soaking wet and still clutched in his hand.
And he stood there and let her.
He let her because with each swipe of the pouf, his earlier fear eased, his anxiety faded slowly, bit by bit.
He let her because her touch soothed him in a way that no amount of deep breathing, thought labeling or mental counting or list-making ever had.
She knelt before him once again, the spray hitting her face, and washed the front of his right leg—thigh and knee and shin—before dragging the pouf up his inner thigh then across his lower abs to his left leg to repeat the process.
He couldn’t have moved if he’d wanted to. He was too stunned. Too overcome by her kindness.
Too desperate for more of her touch. Her care.
She stood and gently pushed on his shoulder until he turned, facing the spray, so she could wash his shoulders and back, the backs of his thighs and calves. When she was done, she rinsed the pouf out under the spray then hung it back up. Turned him again.
“Lean your head down,” she told him as she squirted a dollop of his shampoo into her palm.
He bent forward and she reached up, running her fingers through his hair several times before lightly scrubbing. He groaned low in his throat as she massaged his scalp, easing the pain in his head until it was little more than a dull ache. Their gazes locked as she washed his hair, her breasts lifted and swaying slightly, her nipples two hard points. Her wet skin shiny, the damp hair at her temples curly, her eye makeup smudged.
He wanted to tell her she was beautiful. He wanted to confess that he’d lied when he told her he never thought about her. He wanted to ask her why she’d left all those years ago. What he’d done wrong.
He wanted to be the type of man who could forgive her.
If only so he really could let her go.
But his words would expose too much of himself. His wants made him vulnerable.
And she was already seeing him at his weakest. His most pathetic.
She already held way too much power over him.
So he kept his words locked away deep inside him.
And kept right on lying to himself. That he was happy with his life. That he liked being alone.
That he was fine.
Lowering her arms, she turned him again and he ducked his head under the spray, rinsing his hair. She opened the shower curtain and stepped out, shutting it behind her. He stayed under the warm spray, his head pressed against the slick wall, eyes closed until he heard the curtain being opened again.
He opened his eyes as Tabitha reached in and shut off the water. She had one of his dark blue bath towels wrapped around her, the edges tucked in at her breasts, her shoulders and arms wet.
She held out her hand and he took it, stepping onto the thick bath mat. Then he stood there, still and silent, while she opened another towel and rubbed it gently over his hair before swiping it across his shoulders. She dried him off briskly, hung the towel on the hook on the back of the door, then took his hand and led him into his bedroom. Helped him get into bed, tugging the covers over his naked body, tucking him in like he was a child.
“Is there someone I can call?” she asked from the side of the bed. “So you don’t have to be alone?”
He should tell her he didn’t need anyone to take care of him—despite all the evidence pointing to the contrary.
He should claim that this had never happened before.
He should thank her for taking care of him.
Then he should send her on her way.
But for once, he wasn’t about to do what he should.
What was safe.
For once, he was going to do what he wanted.
He reached out and lightly grabbed her hand. “Stay. Please.”