“Sorry. I said no. Dip your head back,” Jesse orders. I do, and he washes my hair as I squeeze my thighs together, desperate to create friction to bring me over the edge. His fingers are soft against scalp and I’m at the point where I’m delirious from his worshipping touch. If only. My hands are still hanging over the sides of the tub and I know if I had my own fingers, I’d be coming in less than five seconds
“You were supposed to tell me who you are,” I reply. His fingers are harder now as he massages the shampoo into the back of my head and behind my ears. It feels so good, I’m deadweight in his hands, pliable and willing to go along with anything he asks.
“I didn’t get what I want yet. Let’s finish this first.”
The only reply he gets is a small moan that edges him to massage my scalp faster. There have been times in my lifetime when I’ve relaxed, of course, but it’s never been at the hands of another person. I would fall asleep if I weren’t so horny. I swallow hard and curse the cuts on my hands and knees. The cuts. Matteo. Who is the man touching me with such care right now? A million thoughts race through my mind as I try to formulate a rational reason I’m attracted to him. Other than all the wrong reasons, that is. Jesse slides me down so my hair rinses free of soap. I hear a noise that comes from his chest, reverberating through the space.
Opening my eyes, I look up and see Jesse’s face in the center of the light above him. Like he has a halo and a shadowy face. Cutting through the dark is his eyes and his lust is unconcealed. I’m looking into the eyes of a man who knows what he wants and won’t wait long. He promised me chaos. He told me he was a bad idea. Poison. Yet here I’m caught in a moment I’ll never recover from. I sit up carefully and spin so I’m facing him. I wrap my arms around my knees which are still out of the water. He stays open to me, letting the things he feels right now leak into our connection. Jesse takes a washcloth and soap and begins washing the parts of my body that are outside of the water. It’s a caress, and the throbbing at my core is in time with my hammering pulse.
“Stand,” he says.
I should be nervous, or have hesitation baring myself to him, but he offers nothing but acceptance that breaks down my inhibitions. I stand, white suds sliding down my body slowly. He washes my stomach, my breasts, neck, down my legs, and carefully around my knees. I spin so he can wash my back. Jesse drops the washcloth and palms my ass. I lose my breath and jump a little. I turn to the mirror on the other end of the tub and see him starting at his hands, on me, and my stomach flips. His gaze is worshipping, like he’s never seen a female figure before.
Jesse leans over and presses a kiss between my shoulder blades. The gentleness isn’t expected, and I think it’s why I’m exhilarated. I don’t know what to expect next. “Come here,” he says, gaze meeting mine in the mirror. He knew I was watching.
Turning to face him, he offers me both hands and I step out onto the bathmat, water still sliding down my body. “Do you want to finish what we started?”
“That’s hardly a fair question when I’m nearly finished.”
He shakes his head. “Life isn’t fair.” Sadness. It’s the first true thing he’s let me see.
“Jesse,” I say, gulping on my next breath.
Blue eyes widen as response.
“If I say I want to finish, what happens next? Will it ruin our arrangement? Will I still have a job?”
He laughs once, without humor. “Drew, this wasalwaysthe arrangement.”
He takes me by the hand and helps me out of the tub.
“You said, you said this wasn’t about sex,” I whisper. He unwraps my hand. “Another lie.” My voice shakes.
He doesn’t break focus as he unwraps the other hand. “No, you lied to yourself if you thought this was never going to be about sex. I told you I might want you for myself. This is me wanting you for myself.” His gaze meets mine. Jesse checks my knees, then stands again. “Let’s go. If I have to look at your perfect fucking body for another second without owning it, I won’t be responsible for what happens.”
I second guess myself. He’s assured me I’m safe, but when he leads me toward the leather bench instead of the bed, I trip over my nerves, and stop in my tracks. “You can’t hit me.” The words spill out before I can temper them, before I can explain what I really mean.
Jesse cuts my view by stepping in front of me. Taking my face in his hands, he says, “Why would you think I want to hit you?”
I close my eyes so I don’t have to look at him, and so I can shutter my shame from view. There is a first time for everything. Most people remember happy, life changing moments. Mine, well, my firsts are always memorable, but because they’ve scarred me in some horrific way. My grandma beat me senseless the first time a boyfriend dropped me off in the middle of the night. I gave him my virginity and I swear to God she could smell I’d lost it on my breath. She broke my arm with a baseball bat, cracked three ribs, and gave me a black eye so bad sometimes I still see the ghost of the scar when I look in the mirror. That was before the storm. Before I found out I became pregnant the first time I had sex. When I told my boyfriend I’d missed my period, he told me these things were expensive to take care of. He took care of it himself. After, I was in the hospital for weeks. I didn’t receive the kind of care I got when I was there with Jesse. The doctors treated me like I was a plague, and no one spoke to me. Not like I was a human, anyway. I did find out quickly thatthese thingsare free to take care of for peoplelike me, and nurses turned their noses up at me—like the beating, and the loss of the pregnancy was of my own volition. “Drew, I asked you a question,” Jesse says, trying to bring me back to the moment.
Keeping my eyes closed, I reply, “I, I, don’t know what the bench is used for, and I thought you might be into BDSM, and it would make sense. I wouldn’t fault you for it, and I could get used to it but, butyou can’t hit me.”
Exhaling, I open my eyes and allow the pent-up tears to leak down my face. He wipes at them with his thumbs. For the first time, he lets me in, the emotion in his eyes penetrating my soul. “Why would itmake senseI was into BDSM?” The question comes as a fierce growl.
“The control. Because of where you’re from. With you, I feel like I’m on the edge, and sometimes violence is on the edge.”
“You think I want to hurt you? After I’ve promised to protect you?” It’s then, in the tense quiet that I realize Jesse is trying. When so many others would have walked away or worse, he’s trying.
It’s a risk, but one I feel compelled to take. Leaning forward, I wrap my arms around his neck and bury my face into his chest. “No,” I reply honestly, feeling every deep breath he takes in this moment. Several seconds after I first made contact, he wraps his arms around me, tenderly cradling my head against his neck. I cry softly until I push the memories away. Jesse presses his lips against the side of my head and leads me toward the bed. Pulling down the lush covers, he puts me to bed. Rolling toward him as he sits on the edge, I take his hand. “Jesse, I’m sorry.” I’m desperate to go back in time and change my reaction, but life isn’t fair and that’s all there is to it.
“Stop. The bench only invokes and involves pleasure. It’s my fault for not telling you, and for letting you assume the worst of me.”
I open my mouth to protest, but he silences me with a look. “I do like to be in control. I do have a past, and the edge is a place with which I am intimately familiar. This wasn’t how I envisioned tonight ending, but I’m glad it did because well, I’m not myself around you. I shouldn’t have touched you.”
“Why? I wanted you to touch me.” I still do, but that would be an awkward conversation with my tears staining the front of his shirt.
“This wasn’t the plan.”