Page 52 of Newton

"I think I would, but I can do that even if you come. Brielle." My name sounds like a warning on his lips, but it doesn't bring me an ounce of fear.

My pussy convulses, the last scrape of his stomach over that sensitive bundle of nerves enough to push me over the edge.

"God," he grunts, the pulse of his cock deep inside of me while I come at the very same time is possibly the best thing I've ever felt in my life.

He doesn't hesitate to pull me to his chest a second after collapsing on the bed beside me.

I bite my lower lip when I'm hit with the sensation of our combined orgasm sliding against his leg. He doesn't freak out, doesn't tell me I'm disgusting like I expect any man would. Saying something in the throes of passion and actually meaning them are two very different things.

The room is quiet as we bask in the afterglow and catch our breaths. When he begins to talk, I fully expect him to mention how good the sex was or his enthusiasm about when we can do it again. I never expected what he actually says.

"My mother was a very neglectful woman," he begins. "No one should've been shocked at the number of times she chose drugs over taking care of me."

It's my turn to hold him tighter.

"She always had men in and out of our lives. We had nothing, so we'd always stay with them. None of them were ever okay with her bringing her son along with her. She took so much abuse just to score drugs."

I want to cry for the little boy I can imagine curled up in the corner trying to make himself so small that he was unnoticeable.

"I was seven when she overdosed right in front of me."

I could tell him that I'm sorry, that he deserved better, but I know those words wouldn't help me either.

Maybe that's our connection. Maybe our combined trauma is what keeps us linked, and as much as I can feel the urge to cling to him, I also know it might very well end up being the most toxic thing we could possibly do.

All I know is that I won't let go of him until he forces me to.

Chapter 25

Newton

Last night wasn't the first time I spoke of my childhood.

I've worked through nearly all my traumas in therapy.

It was the first time I whispered them aloud to someone other than a medical professional.

I didn't even have these conversations with the loving woman who adopted me. I did my best when growing up after my mother's death and my placement in foster care to never think of those days again.

I had made certain adaptations in my life that I thought as a child would keep me safe.

I wore clothes to bed, including shoes, until I was in the Marine Corps because of the time mom made us run from a man's house and I had to do so with bare feet in the middle of winter. So it was a lesson learned, and I knew I never wanted to have to do it again.

I didn't turn my back to a room because of the time I was struck in the head with a flying beer bottle because I was blocking the TV.

Minor adjustments were made to keep me safe, and my adoptive mother, the sweet, kind woman that she was, didn't argue with me about it. When speaking with her friend, she called them quirks as if they were completely normal. She didn't force me to take my shoes off or sit in a restaurant with my back to people. She accommodated me, and I'll always be grateful to her.

Thinking of her makes my heart ache. She might be the only person in my life I miss, but cancer doesn't have people complete applications, only choosing the people that won't be missed.

Despite Brielle lying on my chest all night, it still left me feeling vulnerable and a little raw.

I know I didn't have to tell her those things. I also know she doesn't whisper her secrets to me at night because she's expecting me to reciprocate. I could tell by the stiffness in her body when I started talking last night that she hadn't thought for a minute that I could possibly be damaged too.

I just wanted her to know that I understood what she went through a little more than others.

"I was hoping we could hang out in the room today," she says as we walk toward the sink to rinse out breakfast plates before putting them in the dishwasher.

The look in her eyes and the way she nibbles on her bottom lip tell me exactly where her head is.

---