Page 32 of Tell Me Something True

Staring at her, he absently rubbed a hand over the ache spreading in his chest.

Jesus, but she was beautiful. Her skin glowed in the moonlight, all that softness he wanted to devour. Her hair was a tangled mess, bright against the darkness of his couch. Her expression relaxed, her lips parted slightly.

Her shoes still on.

She’d stayed.

It didn’t mean anything except that he’d made her come three times—and hell yes, you’d better believe he’d counted—and she was exhausted.

She’d stayed.

She’d felt safe enough to fall asleep on his couch even after he’d wrapped his fingers around her throat. After he’d fucked her quick and rough.

She’d stayed.

Even though he’d walked away, leaving her naked on her hands and knees.

Like none of it had meant anything to him.

Like she meant nothing.

Was worth nothing.

Shame suffused him, taking up all the space in his head until it felt fuzzy. Soaking up all the air in his lungs. His chest tightened with an all-too familiar feeling. That earlier anxiety built, growing bigger and bigger, filling every pore.

Grinding his back teeth together, he fought against it. Not another one. Not now. But his body didn’t give a shit that Tabitha could possibly wake up and find him at his lowest. His mind didn’t care that these attacks were happening more frequently. Lasting longer. Getting worse.

He couldn’t stop it.

His breathing grew choppy. His fingers tingled painfully as they went stiff, curling like claws. Cold touched the back of his neck. Prickled at the base of his spine.

Leaning his back against the doorframe, he concentrated on taking his next breath. Then the next. But they felt shallow. Insufficient. He grew dizzy.

Heart racing, he slid down the doorframe to a crouch, rested his elbows on his knees, his hands dangling between them. Mouth open, head tipped back, he shut his eyes. He knew he was breathing, knew damn well he was getting enough oxygen, but it still felt like he was going to pass out.

His entire body prickled painfully. Small, uncontrollable tremors shook his body. He thought he heard someone saying his name, a soft whisper of sound, familiar and soothing.

But this wasn’t one of his dreams, the one he still had several times a week. The one where his mother would call his name.

The one where he couldn’t save her.

This was real. And the voice, while still soft, still patient, was getting louder.

“Miles.”

His eyes flew open, and for a moment, he couldn’t understand what he was seeing, couldn’t figure out how Tabitha had gone from sound asleep and naked on his couch only moments ago to kneeling before him wearing only her shirt.

Jesus. How long had he been sitting there, falling apart?

Worse. How long had she been kneeling there calling his name?

Nausea rose in his throat, combined with his panic, threatening to choke him. He wiggled backwards, trying to get away from the sensations clawing at his body, as if he could disappear into the narrow wooden frame at his back.

As if he could somehow escape this situation. Hide from this humiliation.

“I know it must feel awful,” she said gently. “I’m so sorry you’re going through this.”

He shut his eyes again, needing to get away from the sympathy in her gaze. The understanding in her voice.

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