“So,” I continue, ignoring his tension. “My hormones were part of it. But what we did together wasn’t merely masturbation. Simply playing with myself never gets me that hot. I told you before—you flip every ‘on-switch’ I have. And tonight, watching you, seeing your desire for me in your eyes…”
I pause to fan myself exaggeratedly, while trying to cajole him into a smile. His lips twitch at my silly antics. He’s so damned cute! On the hottie scale of 1 to 10, Grant bats 1000.
“Mmm, just hearing your sexy pillow talk…”
For a heartbeat, I’m drawn back to those heated moments. The raw hunger I’d felt to have the hard, long length of him deep inside of me. I shake my head to clear my mind and take a deep breath.
“We’re just so damned compatible,” I say with a broad grin. "I bet we could both climax non-stop all night long and all of tomorrow. I don’t think we'll ever find an end to that heat.”
“I agree,” he says, his lips firm, his expression grave.
Grant’s still wearing his super-serious expression. It cracks me up when I’m trying to be lighthearted, but I manage to curb my laughter.
We sit there, stupidly staring at each other once more, but saying nothing. It’s so ridiculous, yet it’s something we seem to do a lot.
A thought strikes me. “So, you touched me… ”
“Yes,” he says, and a smile tugs at his lips.
“And you didn’t experience any need to run away?”
“None.”
“So tonight was a success?” I suggest.
His face fills with satisfaction. “A complete success.”
“Wonderful,” I say. “OK then, how about we move forward to the next part of our night? Let’s lie down on your bed together, but we’ll keep our clothes on. I want to work toward you learning to accept and appreciate physical closeness.”
Grant's entire body stiffens, but I ignore his reaction. I know touch is an issue. If I explain myself, perhaps he’ll come to terms with my plan.
“For a start, we can just lie down beside one another,” I say. “Trust me, you’ll be comfortable enough to actually touch me after a while. The main goal here is to just enjoy it. Once we get to that point, whenever you're ready, we can get into some hardcore cuddling!" I joke.
Appearing suddenly lost and out of his element, Grant's eyes widen slightly. His discomfort is almost palpable. Through what I can only assume has been years of practice and sheer force of will, his features remain composed—but his eyes!
He can’t hide the anxiety in eyes.
He looks as though he’s approaching a state of panic.
Someone sure as hell fucked him up. For all I know, it might've been a number of someones. I want to ask Grant about his childhood. I want to know the details. Who hurt him so deeply? But once again, I decide that it’s better to wait.
Now is not the time for that. He’ll tell me when he’s ready.
“You know what?” I say suddenly, “You already moved mountains tonight. Let’s leave the whole touching exercise for another day. It’s getting late and I have no idea if Briley will sleep through the night. Let's just hang out for a while and then get some sleep.”
Grant nods his agreement. The tension leaves his body as fast as it came, clearing the air. In discussing certain topics, such as touching, I risk the chance of pushing him too far. If we stop now, we’ll end our night on a positive note.
“There’s no rush,” I add. “You did so well, Grant. I hope you're as pleased as I am about your progress tonight. You blew me away.”
He smiles and the powerful masculinity that is such a part of him slams into me with the force of a semi. I’m suddenly dizzy and breathless.
Dazed, I smile back.
I know I’ve made the right decision. We have weeks to spend together and plenty of time to touch each other.
I had no idea how wrong I was.
Chapter 23.
“Search Warrant: A court order authorizing the examination of a place for the purpose of discovering contraband, stolen property, or evidence of guilt to be used in the prosecution of a criminal action.”
— Webster’s Dictionary
~~~
Detective Bronowski
“I love you, Daddy.”
“I love you, too, princess.”
Janice Bronowski, the youngest of three children, lay tucked into bed with her favorite toy, a stuffed pony. Her long brunette hair stood out in stark contrast to her white sheets. With her perfect button nose, red lips and brown eyes, she was a beautiful child.
Janice got her looks from her mother, thank God.
Roman Bronowski bent over and kissed his daughter goodnight. Impulsively, Janice threw her arms around his neck, holding on as if she would never let him go. Her slim, young limbs squeezed him tight.
She might just as well have been squeezing his heart.
His phone rang inside his pocket.
“Are you going back to work, Daddy?” Janice asked sleepily.
He shook his head. “Not if I can help it, sweetie. Sleep well.” Roman switched off her light, shut the door and answered his phone.
“Bronowski,” he answered, as he made his way down the stairs.
“Judge Morrison came through,” Lee Brewer, the District Attorney, said. “We’ve obtained the warrant for the Chester Wilkinson case.”
“Excellent. Did we get everything we asked for?”
“Computers, phones, and medications at his home and workplace.”
“OK. Should I call in the team?”
“The State doesn’t want to pay overtime,” Lee said. “It’s already been three years. It can wait until tomorrow morning.”
“OK,” Roman replied. “I’ll text everyone. We can hit both places simultaneously at 7 a.m.”
“I’ll have the legal paperwork sent to your home.”
“That’s fine.”
“Keep me informed,” Lee said. “You have a good night now.”
“Sure. You too.”
Roman ended the call, put his phone back in his pocket and poured himself a couple of fingers of whiskey from the bar.
His wife, Angela sat in front of the TV, utterly absorbed. She was watching CSI.
Again.
Fucking CSI.
Roman liked the show well enough, except watching it was too much like taking work home. It also irritated the hell out of him at how easy it always was for the assholes in TV Land to solve their cases. Every crime they worked on was neatly wrapped up with a pretty bow on top within the allotted one-hour episode.
If only life could be that way.
Few crimes were so easy or obvious to solve. Enforcing the law was rarely tidy. Crimes occurring in his neck of the woods was messy, took serious time to resolve, and all too often remained unsolved with the perpetrators still at large.
“Who was that, hon?” Angela asked absently. Her gaze never left the TV.
“Just work,” he said.
A familiar, unwanted emotion welled up inside of Roman. He resented the attention his wife continually devoted to the TV. There was a time when they couldn’t keep their hands off each other.
How long had it been since he’d last gotten laid? It had been a while—more than a week anyway, and probably closer to two. He was frustrated at how he always had to wait for his wife to make the first move. Her constant rejection was killing him.
How did it come to this? he wondered.
What was the old joke? How do you stop a woman from fucking? Marry her!
In Roman’s mind, there were no truer words. He shook his head.
I’m actually jealous of CS fucking I, he realized. Here I am, a real life detective right here in her own home, in her bed and she ignores me to stare at the fake ones on TV!
A commercial came on. Angela turned her brown eyes toward him with a look of displeasure on her face.
“You’re not going back to work tonight, are you?”
“Hell, no,” he said, walking over a
nd slumping down onto the couch next to his wife. “’I have an early start in the morning though.”
Angela raised her eyebrows, her lips twisting into a naughty smile. “Good, because I was thinking we would get to bed early tonight,” she murmured with a seductive lilt to her voice.
Roman set his drink down quickly. “Oh, babe, that’s a great idea,” he said eagerly, placing an arm around her. “You look really tired. Why don’t we go to bed right now?”
“Shh, shh!” she said, physically withdrawing from him, her eyes again focused on the TV, as the show came back on. “You can take me to bed… right after this episode of CSI.”
Chapter 24.
“Scars are not injuries… a scar is a healing. After injury, a scar is what makes you whole.”
— China Miéville
~~~
Renata Koreman
Grant and I spend a pleasant half-hour chatting at the kitchen table. By tacit agreement, we speak only about light, easy subjects. He tells me stories about his garden and André, while I tell him stories about Mitten and André.
André is a topic that makes us both of us smile.
The progress Grant’s made in one day is awe-inspiring. How far will he go if I’m here with him for months? I have so much hope for his future… and mine.
When we finally get up from the table, I let Mitten inside the house so he can sleep with me, as he usually does. He immediately comes inside, rubbing himself against my legs as soon as I call his name.
With Mitten on my shoulder, Grant and I check on Briley. He’s sleeping soundly.
“Goodnight, darlin’,” Grant says in the hallway outside my bedroom. He leaves his hands at his sides, leans over and gives me a chaste kiss, a soft and sweet press of his lips to mine. “And goodnight to you, Mitten,” he adds, giving my cat a gentle scratch under the chin.
“Goodnight,” I reply. “See you in the morning.” I raise my hand and gently run my fingertips over his facial scars.
Grant’s body trembles and his eyes widen slightly. He tries to mask his response, but he likes it when I caress the disfiguring marks on his face. Does he sense my acceptance of him by that simple gesture?
Touching his scars is a spontaneous and irresistible desire on my part. They’re beautiful to me. His injuries don’t define him, yet they show the world just how strong he truly is. For the hundredth time, I wonder how in the hell he got them and why it’s such a damned secret.
Will he ever tell me? If we stay together, I hope he will. I like to think that a committed, long-term relationship is based on trust. For it to work, both partners need to be open enough to bare their souls.
I brush my teeth, wash my face and get ready for bed. It’s been a significant day of progress and firsts. So much has happened that I’m both emotionally drained and physically exhausted.
Something Grant said earlier is on my mind.
I was able to get into it and enjoy it because my attention was on you. I connected with you. I wanted to please you. It made everything we were doing seem good and clean and right somehow.
I grin, thinking about how I can use such extremely valuable information in future sessions. When his attention is focused on pleasing me, he is apparently able to get out of his own head. So? All I have to do is get him to concentrate on pleasing me.
I am so not complaining!
Sex with Grant is as hot as hell.
Sounds like a win-win and more particularly, an erotic win for me. I lick my lips, imagining the things he might do to me—or let me do to him, while he concentrates on my pleasure.
Mmm…
I picture myself naked, on my knees, and sucking his raging hard-on. Grant’s large hands are on my head, he’s directing my movements. I flash on the image of him taking me doggy-style, or driving in deep with me bent over a chair, or shoved up against a wall. I picture his mouth tugging at my breasts, or with his face down between my legs once more, licking and sucking…
Damn! Simply the thought of him is incendiary.
Tonight was the first time he ever went down on a woman? Holy hell, the guy’s a fucking natural. I’m honored to be his first.
Surprisingly, I realize what I’m most looking forward to is raw, sexy kissing. Kissing is so personal and utterly primal.
Grant hasn’t really kissed me yet.
As I turn off the light and climb into bed, I find myself thinking about my first love. Jamie was loyal and loving. He would have done anything for me.
Unfortunately, I still can’t think of Jamie without remembering his cold, dead body lying next to me, the suspicious and condemning expressions on the faces of the police who questioned me, and the unpleasant month or two I was forced to spend in a psychiatric hospital.
Now, I feel safe and protected with Grant. He cares about me and it’s a wonderful feeling.
I stroke Mitten, who purrs loudly, soothing my raw nerves. I’m happy, I’m tired—yet I’m also wired.
Perhaps being around Briley is affecting me. Today and tonight, I’ve touched upon a few emotionally-charged memories of my own. Whatever the reason, I fall into a troubled sleep, and I have a nightmare.
Once more, I'm forced to re-live one of the worst times in my painful past.
No! No! Not again! It’s only a dream! I tell my sleeping self. I’m not a child anymore! But I’m caught. I can’t stop this.
Chapter 25.
“To achieve your dreams, sometimes you must first face your nightmares.”
— André Chevalier
~~~
Renata Koreman
In my dream, I jerk awake, terrified.
This is how I feel when I open my eyes every morning. It’s how I spend every day. Everything scares me.
Rain thumps loudly, echoing on our metal roof. Today is my birthday. I’m twelve. It doesn’t feel any different than being eleven did.
I’m wearing the same clothes I wore yesterday and the day before. I sit up, pull the thin window curtain back and look outside.
I frown. Crap. Some of the things I washed are hanging out in the rain. I don’t have anything else to wear.
I turn my head, listening carefully.
Nothing.
Outside in the street, I can hear cars and trucks roaring by and a dog is barking in the distance. These are not scary sounds. These sounds are OK.
I hop off my bed and I hurt. My body shakes as I remember the reason why. I rub my back. Bruises. I’m sore from the last beating my father gave me. He caught my wrist and held me in place.
I hate that. I hate being unable to get away.
I wasn’t fast enough.
I should have hidden myself the second he came home, but he was smiling. That’s not normal for my daddy. Sometimes he brings me candy or a little present. Sometimes my father is nice, but not that often.
Then Daddy found out Mommy didn’t have any beer in the fridge and it made him angry. I can still hear what he always says to me, “You stupid little bitch! Shut up! Stop crying!”
The sound of his voice in my head cuts right through me. I’m very quiet now. I don’t cry anymore. I never make a sound.
He hits me harder when I cry.
I hope Mommy goes out and gets him some beer today. Does she have any money? Maybe she won’t get out of bed. Mommy takes special pills the doctor gave her. I hope she gets better soon.
Daddy hits her, too.
If I run and hide fast enough, he won’t hit me—he’ll hit her instead.
I feel really bad about that, but I’m not very brave.
I’d rather he hit her.
I don’t want to hear anything. I don’t want to see anything. I don’t want to feel anything.
My eyes move to the place where I usually hide, inside a cardboard box I keep in the closet. It’s safe there. My Daddy never finds me in there. I love the darkness inside my box. I love the quiet. Sounds are muffled while I'm in my box. I block everything out. I pretend I'm safe. Everything’s OK when I'm in there.
“Shut up or I’ll give you something to cry about!” he yells.
I flinch as I remember. I've heard him say that a million times. He means what he says. It's best not to make a sound—no tears, no noise at all. I try to become invisible. I try to disappear. I wish Mommy would do that too. I hate it when he hurts her.
I keep listening again until I’m sure we’re alone. Daddy’s gone to work. Mommy will be in bed.
Shush! I have to be quiet. I tiptoe over to see my baby brother. He’s on the floor in the bassinet the Salvation Army people gave us. He’s still asleep. I smile when I see Timmy sucking his thumb. His baby skin is so soft. His hair is soft, too. Soft and yellow, just like my hair.
He looks like the picture of baby Jesus the nice Salvation Army lady gave me. I keep that picture in my school bag. It reminds me of my little brother.
I love Timmy more than anyone or anything in the whole world.
I want to grow up and have lots and lots of babies. I’m going to marry the school librarian, Mr. Brand. He doesn’t yell. I never say anything to him, but he doesn’t mind if I don’t talk.
I won’t marry anyone like my father.
Mr. Brand smiles at me a lot. He speaks really slow and low. He knows my name. He says, ‘Thank you, Renata’ if I help him put away the library books. He also says, ‘You’re a good girl, Renata.’ When he says this, I feel all tingly and happy inside. Mr. Brand is really, really nice. I love Mr. Brand.
“I… I l-l-love y-y-you t-t-too,” I say to my little brother, even though he’s asleep and can’t hear me. My whisper is a stutter. I always stutter when I speak—but it isn’t safe to talk. It’s better to say nothing.
“Shut up! Shut up! You have a st-st-st-stutter stupid!”
I close my eyes to make it go away when I hear Daddy’s voice in my head.
I’m scared at home. I’m scared at school. I’m always scared.
They tease me in class and at the playground. If I’m very quiet and hide, no one bothers me. I don’t have any friends, but that’s OK. Mr. Brand likes me. He smiles when I help him.
That’s what the other kids call me. I’m stupid and I stink and I forget how to talk when anyone looks at me. I’m afraid of people, but I know my little brother loves me and Mr. Brand says I’m a good girl.