TIME

by Penny Reid

  I took a deep breath, needing to clear my throat of emotion before continuing. “I love how you make love to me. I love it when you hold me down. I. Love. It. It gets me so, so hot. I love it when you’re above me and I can’t move. I love it when you take control and tell me what to do, order me around. However, after, I feel guilty about it, ashamed, and I can’t stop comparing what happened when I was younger with what I enjoy, with you, during sex.”

  Abram blinked, distraught, his gaze moving over my head for a long moment, during which I regained control of myself, successfully winning the battle against the urge to cry.

  “Have you talked to anyone?” His eyes cut back to mine. “A therapist?”

  I hesitated. “Leo gave me some numbers a few weeks ago.” It didn’t escape my notice that everyone—Leo, Lisa, Gabby, and now Abram—seemed to think that my touch aversion in certain situations was related to the trauma. I still couldn’t figure out why I flinched sometimes, and at other times I didn’t, even with Abram. “I spoke to one of them—twice so far—but I just . . .” I shook my head.

  “What?”

  “It’s like, I don’t know this woman, and I’m going to tell her everything about myself? It seems very strange.”

  His mouth twitched. “Mona.”

  “Abram.”

  “That’s what therapists do.”

  “I know.”

  “That’s their job.”

  “I know.”

  His gaze moved over me. “Will you please talk to a professional about this?”

  Ugh. Crap.

  “Fine.”

  “I’ll go with you if you want.”

  I splashed water on my face, hoping to wash off some of the eye makeup that I was certain had smudged under my eyes. I probably looked like a football player. “I’ll, uh, let you know, if I need you to go.”

  Wiping my face of water, I gave him back my gaze. The bathtub was almost full, but neither of us made a move to switch off the water. I was too busy mediating a four-way battle between longing, hope, fear, and shame.

  I longed for his touch, for things to be like they were before, between us.

  I hoped he’d still want me.

  I feared that he wouldn’t.

  Shame . . . well, that was a dead horse. I’d beaten it enough.

  We were silent for a long time, long enough for anxiety to swell in my chest, long enough for me to await his next words with both dread and anticipation. I was terrified of what came next. But tonight was a night for bravery and recklessness. I’d come this far, I’d revealed this much. Therefore, even though I was nervous, I decided to rip off the Band-Aid.

  Balling my hands into fists, I lowered my gaze to the surface of the water. “I already had your bags moved here. But if you need some time or want to stay at your original hotel for the next few days, or somewhere else, I completely understand.”

  Abram chuckled, it sounded incredulous. The laughter drew my eyes back to his and I found them to be equal parts tired, concerned, and frustrated. “Oh, my Mona. Do you really have no idea how I feel about you? Do you not understand that, even as I sit here, worried about you, livid and plotting revenge on your behalf, I’m trying to figure out how to prove you can trust me? Always. I love you with every part of myself, you’ve invaded every corner, every secret place, and I only want—I’ve only ever wanted—your happiness. If you want me to stay, then with you is always where I want to be.”

  I blinked against those confounded tears again, this time battling misery instead of apprehension. Why does his beautiful profession of love make me miserable?

  “What can I do?” he asked, worry adding an edge to the softness of the question.

  “I just . . .”

  “What?”

  “I don’t want you to see me differently,” I confessed to the water. “I loved how you looked at me, like you were hungry for me, like you wanted me all the time, like you’re insatiable. I looked forward to it. Does that make me superficial and shallow?”

  “Look at me.”

  Bracing myself, I did. His eyes glowed amber. Hot. Full of such raw desire and affection, it drove the air from my lungs and most of the wits from my brain.

  “How am I looking at you?” His question was a deep rumble.

  I couldn’t answer, the words stuck in my throat, viscous with lust, heart humming happily. Harlot heart.

  “I’m looking at you the same way you’re looking at me. If you want the whole truth, and not to put any pressure on you, because that’s the last thing I want to do, I’m—selfishly—trying to figure out a way to get inside your pants without making you feel guilty afterward. I’m conjuring ideas, wondering how you’d feel about dominating me, tying me up.”

  I had to swallow, because lust. “But, would you want that? Is that something you’d like?”

  “Oh yes.” His mouth curved, a flash of teeth, his dimple deeper on the left than on the right. But I knew it would be. “Yes. I’d like that very much.”

  “Even though you wouldn’t be in control?”

  “Uh, sign me up.”

  I couldn’t help it, I laughed, shaking my head at him. “You want to be dominated?”

  “By you? I would love it. Just think, I sit back, let you do all the hard work, sounds amazing. We could even get a blindfold and some handcuffs. I’d like that, you teasing me, making me crazy.”

  I laughed harder, tears leaking from the corners of my eyes, shifting my leg to kick him lightly with my foot under the water. “Now you’re just being funny.”

  “I’m not.” His voice, tired and raspy as it was, dropped an octave and he caught my foot, his hand sliding up my ankle to my calf, his touch calming and soothing the part of me that had been frantic about losing him. “Please, have your way with me. You’re so clever and sweet. I bet you would come up with some very interesting, and probably educational, carnal activities. I swear, I am a million percent serious right now.”

  “A million percent?” I twisted my lips to the side, crossing my arms.

  His eyes darted to my chest and then back up. He held my foot on his lap and was massaging the arch with his thumbs. “I’ve never been more serious about anything in my life. Except that I love you.”

  I huffed another laugh, but—after inspecting him closely for another few seconds—I believed him. My body definitely believed him, but it was biased, so it didn’t count. My brain believed him. Most importantly, so did my heart.

  Endeavoring not to smile like the sex-with-Abram-crazed lunatic that I was, I said, “Fine.”

  His eyebrows jumped. “Fine?”

  “Let’s do it.” I pressed my lips together firmly.

  “Yes, let’s.” He grinned, his eyes dancing. However, seconds later he blinked, and his stare sobered. “Also, you’ll call your therapist? Talk to her about everything?”

  Trying not to groan, I settled on a sigh instead, the reminder submarining my buoyed mood. But—strangely—not by much.

  “Yes,” I agreed, earning me a bigger grin.

  “Promise?”

  “Yes. I promise. I’ll call.”

  16

  Infrared, Ultraviolet, X-ray, and Gamma-Ray Astronomy

  *Mona*

  I’m beginning to suspect that I have a tendency to overthink things (and don’t roll your eyes at me, I CAN SENSE YOU ROLLING YOUR EYES!).

  Take Abram and his desires, thoughts, and motivations as an example. It was morning o’clock. Or quite possibly afternoon o’clock. I couldn’t be certain without looking at my phone or an actual clock, and this B&B didn’t have one next to the bed. Anyway!

  Here we were, nebulous time of day o’clock. In bed. Together. Except, when I woke up, instead of being tangled in each other like I’d been led to believe is standard for lovers upon waking, he was on one side of the bed, facing me, and I was on the other side of the bed, facing him. Also, we were both fully clothed in unsexy yet comfortable pajamas.

  Uh, rather, let me amend that. Abram was always sex
y. His Iron Man flannel PJ bottoms and no shirt were quite sexy. Whereas my pink cotton PJ bottoms with Albert Einstein sticking out his tongue rendered in cartoon, plus my baggy white T-shirt, were not sexy.

  But back to nebulous time of day o’clock.

  Blinking, I scowled at his handsome slumbering face. What, pray tell, did this bed distance and lack of tangling mean? Did it mean he’d changed his mind? Or that his subconscious didn’t want me? Evidence suggested I ought to be in service as a femme pillow au extraordinaire. But I wasn’t.

  Were they not pillow material?

  Twisting my lips to the side, I reached up, beneath my shirt, pushing it up, and tested my breasts. Grabbing and squeezing, I considered the value of a breast malleability quotient scale, where breasts could be tested and ranked for skin softness and general pliability.

  Not that I wanted to give women another thing for society to tell them to fret over. But, if there existed women like me, who enjoyed having data to do with what they pleased, then I’d be very interested in a random sample normalized curve of bosom to suppleness ratio, and here is why: The last romance novel I’d read, and the seventeen before that, always included a scene where the hero and heroine woke up embracing, invariably with the man cradled against the female’s chest.

  Therefore, why wasn’t Abram cradled against mine? Were they a non-pillowy shape? Not pliable enough? Where had they failed me?

  First, an analysis was needed. Then a diagnosis of the problem. I squeezed and kneaded and inspected, endeavoring to think of words to describe them were I a heroine in a romance novel. Typically, racks were described as something like, Her supple bosom, but never something like, Her jagged tits.

  Squeezing one and then the other, I closed my eyes and took a moment to diagnose.

  Mona’s malleable mounds.

  No. That was just lazy alliteration, not an accurate reflection of my boob-truth.

  “What are you doing?”

  Tensing, my eyes flew open. I gaped at Abram’s raised eyebrows and the sleepy, confused amber irises beneath.

  A small smile curved his mouth and his stare brightened with suspicion. “Are you . . .?”

  “I’m doing a breast exam.” My voice was much higher than normal, so I cleared my throat, keeping my face impassive. “Always good to, you know, check out the—uh—good old mammary glands and whatnot.”

  His eyes narrowed, his lips somehow pursing but still smiling. “You’re giving yourself a breast exam? Now?”

  I nodded, trying on my academic face. “Of a kind, yes.”

  Abram seemed to be working harder to subdue his grin. “Okay, okay. That’s cool.” Taking a deep breath, he rolled to his back, pushed down the covers and his pajama pants to his feet, and gripped his morning wood.

  I gasped.

  I sensed him glance at me but didn’t actually witness his eyes on my face. My attention was otherwise engaged. Watching him. Stroke. Himself. And, you know, panting. (Me. I was panting. The panting came from me.)

  “Go on,” his voice said. “Don’t let my penis exam distract you from your breast exam.”

  I’d never watched anyone touch themselves before. Big, strong hand, long fingers wrapped around his thick shaft, smoothing down and up, down again in perfect rhythmic strokes, a sexy metronome. It was hypnotic.

  Clearing my throat again, and obviously still panting, I nodded, rolling slowly to my back, eyes still fastened to his erection. My shirt bunching at my collarbone, I massaged and caressed Mona’s suddenly sensitive malleable mounds.

  I had to stifle a groan as Abram tucked his other hand behind his head, giving me a completely unobstructed view of his torso and chest. So unfair.

  “Found anything?” he asked, his voice still deep with sleep and his efforts at last night’s concert.

  “No. Not yet,” I panted (yep, still panting), my nipples now tight, hard beads against my palms, my stomach twisting and coiling and heating. “How about you?” I made the mistake of glancing at his face and found his eyes on my hands where I touched myself.

  He looked almost angry, his eyes—sharp, feral—were at half-mast, his jaw tight. He licked his lips, his tongue darting out, and I had the most intense desire to shove off my pants and straddle his face.

  Why don’t you?

  “Nothing yet,” his voice scraped. “But I’m not finished yet.” Then he groaned. “Mona, what are you doing?”

  His eyes tracked lower, looking pained, and I followed his line of sight to discover I’d moved one of my hands to my stomach, the tips of my fingers skimming along the waistband of my PJs. My gaze flickered back to his, and I tested a reckless hypothesis, dipping my hand inside my underwear and pushing them down my hips.

  Abram’s breath hitched, ragged, unsteady.

  “Pelvic exam,” I said, just as I brought my knees up and parted myself with my fingers.

  His eyes shot to mine, held, his head shifting forward on his pillow, like he was going to do something. But he didn’t. He stopped himself. He glared at me, reminding me of a tiger behind the bars of a cage, making promises with his eyes. If I weren’t trapped, if I could touch you.

  I hoped my stare communicated, Why can’t you? Touch me! I was so hot, wet, ready. I was right there, next to him. Why didn’t he reach out? His lack of action clearly frustrated us both.

  Instead, he swallowed thickly, his eyes drifting down again, first to my breasts, and then to where my fingers moved between my spread legs, heated, dazed. His jaw ticked. His breathing grew labored. He blinked. Hard. Like he was having trouble focusing.

  And then, suddenly, Abram sat up, stood up, pulled up his pants, and left the room. A second later, I heard the shower come on, and my mouth dropped open.

  !

  So.

  There I was.

  In bed.

  One hand on my breast, the other between my legs.

  Bereft.

  Listening to my gorgeous boyfriend take a shower by himself. Probably naked! Unless he wore boxers in the shower as well.

  Growling, I also sat up, stood up, but I pulled my pants down. Whipping my shirt off, I marched after him into the bathroom, finding him—AH HA! NAKED—in the glass shower. I stopped short inside the door because his back was to me and his back was very naked, and I’d never seen a naked back like his before, if you don’t count shirtless rugby players in spandex shorts (which I didn’t).

  Plus, this was Abram’s back. Not anonymous sporty guy’s back. Therefore, it was a spectacular force. Breathing hard, because I was turned on and angry, I placed my hands on my hips, and whisper-yelled, “Why did you leave?”

  Abram turned his head, giving me just his profile, and then shook his head, turning away. “Give me a minute.”

  I took a step closer, so he could hear me better, not so I could get a better view of his ass because the shower was steaming up the glass. Not because worry had cut through the lusty fog in my brain and told me things between us were not functioning as per Mona-Abram relationship standards.

  “Abram. Talk to me. Please.”

  He cursed, flipped off the shower, turned completely around while reaching for a towel to hide his glorious engorged erection. The action left me feeling uncertain, so I plucked a washcloth off the counter and used it as a fig leaf of sorts for my vagina, covering my breasts with my arms.

  “Mona,” he began, frowning at where I held the tiny square in front of myself. Shaking his head as though to clear it, he started again, “Mona. Last night, you shared yourself with me. I am so appreciative that you trusted me, thank you. And, because of what you shared, I’m doing my very best here, trying to keep my hands to myself. Which—” he glanced down at the tented towel at his pelvis “—I am incapable of doing while you’re next to me touching yourself.”

  During his speech, I’d opened and closed my mouth many, many times, mostly planning to object, or question the validity of his logic. Conversely, as I listened and I realized the truth—that he was trying to be respectful an
d save me a visit to shame town—I snapped my mouth shut.

  Glaring at me like I was a roast beef sandwich he’d been denied (the most exceptional of all sandwiches), he cleared his throat, stretched his neck, and waited.

  At first, I didn’t know what to say. I mean, he had a good point. But on the other hand, no. Hadn’t he been the one to suggest me taking the lead last night? So why was he—Oh!

  “Ohhhhhh!” I nodded, my nods slow and exaggerated. “I get it!”

  He gave his head a subtle shake. “What do you get?”

  “You want me to dominate you, tell you what to do.”

  Abram flinched, sucking in a breath.

  But before he could speak, because that was my job now, I tossed the washcloth back to the counter and once again stood before him proudly, hands on my hips.

  “Abram, my love, please step out of the shower.”

  He lifted an eyebrow over narrowed eyes, his lips parting and his jaw shifting to one side, a spark of something in his stare that had me grinning. Was that defiance? How wonderful.

  Eventually, he did it. He stepped out of the shower, letting the towel shift to his hip where he gripped it in one hand.

  His eyes struck me as sardonic and so did his tone as he asked, “What now?”

  “We’re going back to the bed.” I mean, obviously, right?

  I watched as he took a deep breath, like he was steadying himself. With reluctant movements, he began using the towel to dry his skin.

  “No,” I said, frowning.

  “No?”

  “Don’t dry off. I want you wet.”

  He blinked again, like my words landed somewhere sensitive. His grin a tad incredulous, but also amused, he nodded and placed the towel on the edge of the tub. My gaze dropped to his erection and I licked my lips, the electricity of excitement making me restless.

  Crooking my finger as I backed out of the bathroom, I motioned to him. “Come on.”

  Turning, I didn’t wait to see if he would follow and crossed to the bed, standing at the edge of it, waiting for him to appear and nervously worrying my lip.