9. Chapter 9
Out of Reach
Patrick [NOW]
The word cuts through the air. I freeze, my fingers still buried inside him. "Ricky? What's wrong? Did I hurt you?" The panic in my voice shatters the intensity of the moment, leaving me feeling shaky and exposed.
The panic on his expression is a mirror to my own. He's not hurt. He's not scared of me. But he's not okay either, and that's somehow worse.
"I'm fine," he says, trembling. "Just... the cuffs. I need them off right now. Please."
I move instantly, my fingers fumbling with the buckle. The moment the leather is loose, he yanks his hands down, his chest heaving as he rubs his wrists, trying to erase the feeling of being restrained. I gather him into my arms immediately, holding him tightly, my heart still racing.
"Talk to me," I whisper against his hair. "What happened? Did I push too hard? Was it the cuffs? Tell me, baby, please."
He shakes his head, his face buried in my shoulder like he's trying to disappear into my goddamn skin. A wave of shame hits me hard, making me wonder if this whole thing was a mistake from the start.
"I don't know," he mumbles against my chest. He pulls back enough to look at me. "It wasn't you. I got really nervous all of a sudden."
"You were nervous about me," I correct, because let's be real, that's what this is about. Me. My idea. My fault.
"No," he says, shaking his head. "About me."
"I don't know what the hell that means."
"Neither do I." Ricardo runs fingers through his hair, messing it up even worse than it already is.
"Because that's not the complete truth. Honestly…
It wasn't nerves, Patrick. I got scared.
" He pauses, biting his bottom lip. "I'm not scared of you, it's not that...
I got scared of how much of myself I wanted to give you.
Then the fact that I was in handcuffs… it got to me. "
I did this.
I pushed him to this point. I was so focused on what I wanted, on chasing that feeling of power, that I didn't see him slipping away. I broke him. I broke my Ricardo. And I don't know how to fix it.
I pull back and I cup his face, my thumbs wiping away tears I didn't even realize were falling. "Hey, it's okay. It's okay. You used the safeword. That's what it's there for. You did everything right."
But I can see the flicker of hurt, the shadow of self-doubt. He thinks he failed me.
The thought makes me ache with guilt. This was my idea and I've ruined it, made him feel like he did something wrong when all he did was give me what I asked for.
"I'm sorry," he whispers. "I'm so sorry, Ricky. This is my fault. I thought I could do something like this... but I can't."
"Shh, no." I shake my head, pulling him back against my chest. "Don't apologize. This is a learning process, for both of us. We're exploring. Sometimes we hit a boundary we didn't know was there. That's all this was. You discovered a boundary. We'll be okay."
I say the words, but I can feel the tension in his body, the way his heart is still hammering against my cheek. I'm trying to be reassuring.
He pulls away, sitting up, needing to put some distance between us so he can think. He runs a hand through his sweaty hair, his mind racing. I can see it, that confusing mix of emotions: relief that it's over, and a deep, profound disappointment in himself.
"Maybe we should stop experimenting," I say. "This whole thing was a delusional mistake on my part."
"Don't say that," he snaps, the words sharp. I can hear the edge of pain beneath his own anger, a raw nerve exposed. "It wasn't a mistake. I should have communicated when I got to yellow, but it just… it kinda happened in a split second.”
He's trying so hard to be strong for me, to be the steady one, but I can see the cracks in his composure. He's worried he's hurt me, that he's not what I need. And in that moment, a terrible thought takes root in my mind.
He needs someone who can do this right. Someone who isn't so...
demanding, so needy. Someone who can let go completely, who isn't so terrified of their own desires that they push him past his limits.
I've asked him to be this strong, unwavering man for me, but I can't even handle it when he actually does it.
I'm holding him back. I'm not the partner he deserves.
"You deserve better than me," I whisper. My gaze drops to the bedsheets.
"Patrick, what the hell are you talking about?" He asks. "Don't say that. Don't you dare push me away because you're feeling ashamed. This is all part of learning and growing together."
"It's not shame," I lie, because it is. "It's just... reality. You're so good, Ricky. You're a natural. You're the boyfriend everyone would want, and I'm... I'm a mess. You should be with someone who can appreciate that, who can give you what you need."
I reach out and grab his chin, forcing him to look at me. It takes everything in me not to flinch at the self-loathing I see there.
"What I need," he says, "is you. All of you. The good, the bad, the messy parts. The parts that panic and the parts that want to tie me up. I don't want someone else. I want you."
His words should be comforting, but they only twist the knife of guilt deeper. I'm the one who pushed for this, who's chasing some feeling of control. I've made him my emotional caretaker, when all he was trying to do was fulfill my fantasy to spice things up.
Truth is, I’m the one that failed him, and I don't know how to fix it. The space between us on the bed is a chasm, and for the first time since we started this, I'm terrified I don't know how to cross it.