Abuse

by Nikki Sex

  I still think we’d be good together.

  I’m in love with you, Renata, or at least I feel like I am. I know the way I feel is often considered first love, or puppy love, but it certainly seems real to me. Love is the greatest thing in the whole world that can happen to a man. So thank you for that.

  All my love,

  Joshua

  PS: André recommended this book to me: “She Comes First: The thinking man’s guide to pleasuring a woman.” I’m reading it right now. You have no idea the things I’m learning. I’d really like to share them with you sometime! Ha. Ha. (Not joking).

  PPS: Richard Feynman, a famous quantum physicist said, “Physics is to math what sex is to masturbation.” I’m here to tell you this is entirely true. Sex with you was a euphoric cosmic high, similar to (but nothing like!) my joy of physics. I can never express how grateful I am that you opened my heart, my senses and my soul. (See how poetic love has made me?)

  PPPS: My father and mother send their love, too. Dad says it was the best money he’s ever spent. I can only agree. He says he sees my children and his grandchildren in his future.

  I have a wide grin and a warm wonderful feeling in my heart as I read his letter, but when I see his comment about grandchildren, I burst into tears.

  Joshua’s offered me undying love and a family.

  I tend to be over emotional when I’m premenstrual and my period is due soon. My tears are both happy and sad. I’m happy for Joshua, but the thought of babies can make me cry with a poignant kind of what-might-have-been over my little brother Timmy.

  The timing of his letter is perfect. The universe sometimes has an elegant symmetry. I wrote a letter to Mr. Brand telling him how grateful I was to have had him in my life and how he helped me. Immediately, I received a similar letter from Joshua expressing how grateful he was to me.

  From a karmic point of view, it’s exquisite.

  I go to the bathroom and wash my face. That little cry made me feel better. My emotions have been building up. It felt good to let them out.

  After years of concealing my every reaction, André has taught me how to express my emotions in front of others. So much so, that now I sometimes have trouble hiding how I feel. If I told him he taught me how to react, he’d disagree. No matter how fucked up I seemed, André always said I was already perfect.

  “I do not teach you how to be yourself!” he explained to me once. “Such comes naturally. You are not lost—only hidden. In the safety of my home, you are free to find yourself. In time, you will remember who you are.”

  After one more check in the mirror, I’m pleased to see there’s no evidence of my crying jag. It came and went quickly.

  My thoughts return to Joshua. He’s so lovely and sincere. He deserves to love and be loved. I was honored to have shown him the pleasures of sex. The fact I've been instrumental in him finding his way is fulfilling beyond description. Helping him makes me feel better about myself, and my place in this world. I can only hope my letter to Mr. Brand will bring him some of the joy Joshua’s given me.

  My phone rings and I answer. “Hello?”

  “Hi, Renata,” Grant says and I feel a thrill of happiness at his voice. “I’m at the back entrance of the veterinarian’s office parking lot, knocking on a blue door. Am I in the right place?”

  “Yes, good. I’ll be right down. Bye.”

  I hang up, take a deep breath and remind myself to stay in the right mindset. Focus on him. Be in the present. Be the counselor. This is not about you, I admonish myself.

  But oh, man, despite all of my good intentions, I can’t help but think this is at least partly about me. The way Grant makes me feel is hard to ignore.

  Eager and excited, I run down the stairs and open the door.

  Chapter 8.

  “There is always some madness in love. But there is also always some reason in madness.”

  ― Friedrich Nietzsche

  ~~~

  Renata Koreman

  When I open the back door to the veterinary office, morning heat comes pouring in. Larger than life, Grant stands right in front of me all big and strong and male.

  I’m stunned by feelings so powerful I simply can’t deny them. I stop breathing, unconscious of my instant reaction.

  The French call it, Le coup de foudre. Translated literally, it means, “Bolt of Lightning” or “The Thunderbolt.” Figuratively, it’s an expression used to indicate the phenomenon better known as, “Love at first sight."

  This is a first for me. I loved Jamie deeply and dearly, but never like this. I love André, but it took time for him to grow on me. Joshua is sweet and I adore him.

  But this with Grant? This is something new.

  Overwhelming feelings of affection and attraction slam into me. Just like the French expression—I’ve been struck by a bolt of lightning. It’s sudden, electric and all encompassing. I’m engulfed by his scent, his presence, his utter maleness.

  Even though I’ve never experienced it, I can’t help but know exactly what’s happened to me. I’m in shock, yet there’s also instant recognition.

  I’m love struck.

  I take Grant in with one long glance: guarded blue-gray eyes, wide shoulders, nice face… even with his scars. He smells sexy and oh-so-male. He’s dressed for outdoors, wearing a long sleeved safari shirt, shorts and sneakers.

  For some inexplicable reason I can’t quite understand, my eyes get caught. I stand there, staring at his hands. They’re big and masculine; strong and… compelling. I get a distinct electric tingle throughout my body by just looking at those hands. I want to touch them, and to be touched by them.

  What is this crazy pull I feel, this strong attraction?

  Visions of our all too brief, yet intensely passionate time together flood my mind. I feel my chest, neck and face heat. I want him to get naked and to use me hard. I want him to push deep inside of me and press against me, skin to skin. I want to merge our minds and hearts and bodies together forever and ever, amen.

  It’s madness!

  Le coup de foudre.

  This must be the thunderbolt—what else can it be? I’m a goner. I’m buzzed by the proximity of someone who is unaccountably dear to me. I felt it yesterday when I first met him, as well. I’m drawn to him. Intrigued. Attracted. Fascinated. I’m a casualty, all right. I’ve been struck by love.

  “Hi,” I blurt out stupidly.

  “Morning,” he says in that sweet Texan accent of his, as he nods. If he was wearing a hat, I swear the man would tip it.

  I try to focus on him and remain calm, but I’m nowhere near as confident as I was yesterday. I’ve loved lots of people, but I don’t think I’ve ever really been in love. Just being near Grant has me excited, nervous, confused, and off balance.

  I force myself to meet his gaze. I can tell he’s self-conscious about his facial scars, but they’re nothing to me. I wonder how he got them. Was it a burn?

  “Do you—would you—um,” I stammer, tripping over my tongue.

  I stare down at my feet for a moment while I try to pull myself together. Shifting slightly, I look back up, and right into his guarded blue eyes. He’s holding back, he’s protecting himself. I appreciate his need for a defensive barrier.

  “Would you like to… meet my cat?” I manage to get out.

  Once more, I feel incredibly stupid. What the hell’s wrong with me? Just yesterday, I had hot, unrestrained, fierce and mind blowing sex with this man. So why do I find myself inexplicably shy in his presence?

  I stare at his face and his fine long mouth, looking for any sign of displeasure, distain or mockery. All I can see is that my question’s surprised him. Mitten’s important to me. Is Grant an animal lover? To my relief, his lips twitch and he looks pleased.

  “Sure.” He smirks. “I like cats.”

  Yay—he likes cats!

  I grin. “Follow me.” I turn, move back inside and walk up the stairs.

  I can hear the sound of Grant’s footsteps behind me.
I have a million thoughts going through my mind, but I can’t seem to say any of them. Did he ever have a cat? I imagine him playing with kittens in a barn as a boy.

  I open the door to my apartment and Mitten’s right there and glad to see me. I pat my shoulder and he gracefully jumps up.

  Grant notices my hand motion as well as Mitten’s compliance. His gaze travels over my cat. Mitten is all black, except for the patches of white on his chest and on his two front paws.

  “He’s a beauty,” he says quietly, staring at my cat, who’s now eye level with him.

  “Grant, meet Mitten. Mitten, this is my friend Grant,” I say, treating my Mitten as the person I feel he is.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, um…Mister Mitten?” Grant says, playing along good-naturedly as if he's formally introduced to cats every day.

  I laugh while scratching Mitten’s ears. “Yes. He’s male.” I turn and walk to the couch. “Please, have a seat and meet him properly. You’re not allergic or afraid of cats, are you?”

  “Not a bit,” he assures me with a smile.

  I notice Grant sits down so his scars are facing away from me. I’m sure he’s done this on purpose. His disfigurement is an elephant in the room—something Grant is acutely aware of, but tries to pretend isn’t there. What caused them? I’d ask, but I don’t want to make him uncomfortable.

  When he arrived he was uptight. Right now, he seems less tense and edgy. I think talking about my cat has relaxed him. Cats are apparently a safe subject.

  Mitten doesn’t always perform in front of strangers. I look into his eyes, hoping to communicate how important my visitor is to me. “Mitten, this is my special friend, Grant. Will you say hello?”

  Mitten faces Grant, stands up on his back legs and spreads his arms wide.

  Grant’s face brightens in astonished surprise.

  “Go ahead. Hug him,” I say.

  Grant puts his hands out and moves in closer, ready to accept Mitten’s embrace. When Mitten hugs him, Grant scoops him up into his arms for an appreciative cuddle.

  “You’re really something,” he murmurs to Mitten and smiles while holding and stroking him. “I’ve never met such a neat cat.”

  He puts Mitten down on the couch but scratches up under his chin, pleased when my baby begins to purr. I’m delighted! Grant’s a cat person and Mitten likes him. What would I have done if they hated each other?

  “He’s really great,” Grant says, and the ice is broken.

  I can talk all day about my beloved cat, and Mitten’s a subject Grant’s comfortable with as well. He seems genuinely interested and can apparently listen all day. Before long, I’m telling him about my YouTube business, showing Grant Mitten’s videos and talking about my book.

  An hour flies by easily and naturally without awkwardness or tension while we chat. I give Grant Mitten’s soft rubber ball, so he can play fetch with him.

  Dogs love fetch, from what I understand. They chase the ball, catch it, and return it. Throw, chase, catch and return.

  Mitten, however, adds a few extra steps to this game. Mitten stalks and chases the ball when Grant throws it. But then he attacks the ball as if he’s killing it, and as if the fate of the world depends on its capture and death.

  Once the ball is successfully subdued, Mitten has a smug victor’s glint in his eyes as he brings it back to Grant and drops it at his feet. Throw, stalk, attack, kill, catch and return. Throw, stalk, attack, kill, catch and return.

  We giggle and laugh at his antics. Grant’s utterly charmed and I can tell how much Mitten likes him.

  “I’m so glad you like cats,” I say.

  Unblinking, Grant stares at me intently. “I like you. I think you’re amazing,” he says, and then he colors slightly. I don’t think he expected to say that out loud. I’m glad he’s feeling comfortable enough to let his guard down.

  “I like you, too,” I tell him.

  Our eyes lock and we grin stupidly at each other for a long, long moment. My pulse kicks up a notch. The attraction and energy we have between us takes my breath away.

  Grant stands up, his eyes glancing uneasily toward my bed. “We really should get going, if we want to go kayaking,” he says.

  “OK.”

  He’s worried about us having sex again. Damned if I know why it freaked him out last time. André told me to keep things light, so as much as I want to ask him about it, I don’t.

  Today is all about easy, fun stuff. That’s the plan, anyway.

  Too bad things rarely work out as planned.

  Chapter 9.

  “One thing you can't hide—is when you're crippled inside.”

  ― John Lennon

  ~~~

  Renata Koreman

  Grant kindly stops at a post office so I can mail my letter to Mr. Brand, then we head off to Lake Las Vegas, a 320-acre artificial lake about twenty minutes away.

  Once we arrive, we find a small marina where we can rent kayaks for $25.00 per hour. As the more experienced paddler, Grant sits behind me, in the stern. I’m happy about this as he can get used to looking at me without me looking at him.

  It’s lovely here, so pleasant. A cool breeze over the water, keeps the temperature down.

  “This is fun,” I say, after twenty minutes of moving though the water by using our paddles.

  “I’m glad you like it. I love being out in the open air.”

  “What else do you do outside?” I ask and turn to look at him. It seems an innocent enough question to ask.

  He shrugs. “Just about anything. I hike, swim, fish and shoot. I also like to garden.”

  “Really? No shit?”

  He smiles. “Really. No shit.”

  “What do you grow?”

  “I have a few fruit trees, but mainly it’s an ornamental garden, with shaded sections, herbs and cottage garden type stuff,” he says, while taking another rowing stroke. “I also have a water feature and flowers. I enjoy working in my garden. I find it relaxing.”

  “I don’t know anything about plants or gardening, but I love flowers.”

  His eyebrows rise subtly and a sweet smile flickers around his mouth and eyes. “I grow lots of flowers.”

  I grin back at him. I can see flowers in my future. I’m so tuned-in to this guy. I just know he’s going to bring me a bouquet next time we meet. Maybe he’ll even buy me flowers today.

  Again, as with talking about Mitten, I'm glad to have stumbled upon another neutral subject he's comfortable discussing. Our chat feels natural and easy. We have many long pauses in the conversation, but they don’t matter. I’m feeling at ease and I know Grant is, as well.

  Grant’s an over thinker and not much of a talker. At times, I can see him thinking way too hard. Being here with me isn’t easy for him. André told me Grant had been sexually abused by a man. Why in the world would that make him so nervous around women?

  “I like to swing,” I say.

  He frowns. “Like on a swing set?”

  “Yes. I can’t remember the last time I did it, but it’s relaxing and exhilarating at the same time. As a child, I used to get on a swing after everyone went home from school. I haven’t done that for years.”

  Lips twitching upwards, he says, “If I see one today, we’ll stop.” His expression brightens playfully. “I’ll even push you, if you want.”

  I can’t curb my broad grin and I don’t want to. “I’d love that.”

  Our eyes meet again and damn it to hell if this isn’t like some sort of delayed schoolgirl crush. My heart feels tight in my chest and my stomach’s fluttering with strong attraction. We’re flirting—definitely flirting—and it feels so damn good.

  Each of us saying little, but companionable in our silence, we enjoy a nice lunch and walk along the lake together. Grant’s strong, silent, and self-sufficient—yet also so vulnerable. There’s a deep sadness in his eyes I long to banish.

  He fascinates me. I find him irresistible. I swear my panties have been wet since the first moment I
saw him this morning. I seem to fascinate him, as well. I’m pretty sure he’s had a hard on all day, poor guy.

  I can see him brooding again. He’s preoccupied, working some problem out. He thinks before he speaks, which is a good thing—but not all the time. He takes everything too seriously.

  To my surprise and delight, he takes my hand. I’m thrilled he feels comfortable and close enough for this gesture. I squeeze his hand with pleasure but I’m not sure what to say, so I say nothing. I simply smile up at him.

  He also says nothing, but his palm is sweaty. I watch his throat move as he swallows. He’s so nervous! He’s all too aware his hand is damp. It’s another embarrassing elephant he’s pretending isn’t there. I can tell he doesn’t have a clue what to do about it.

  After several long, uncomfortable minutes, I decide to offer a solution. I take his hand, step in closer and put it on my shoulder. Then I wrap my arm around his waist so we can keep pace with each other as we walk.

  “This is better,” I say, but I immediately realize I’ve made it worse.

  “Yes,” he says, thin lipped.

  His body is stiff. Together, we walk somewhat awkwardly. Now we’re both uncomfortable. I am, because he is. What in the world is wrong with him? I suspect I’m simply too close. I can feel his mind working, trying to figure out the best way to get out of this. He doesn’t know what to do or say.

  It’s such a ridiculous problem, I suppress an overwhelming desire to laugh hysterically.

  Or to scream.

  I decide to try to distract him with conversation. “Grant, is there anything you’d like to talk about?”

  There’s a long pause and we keep walking while he searches his mind, thinking up an answer. “Tell me about yourself,” he finally says. “You don’t have pictures of anyone in your apartment. Where’s your family?”