Page 55 of Look, Don't Touch

“That’s progress. Amazing progress.”

“And the second time you’ve said amazing in the last twenty seconds.”

I grimace. “It’s not you. It’s me.”

“Fair enough.” He barely bobs one of his big shoulders.

Then something strikes me like lightning. I’d be surprised if smoke isn’t billowing out of my ears. “You said all of your consensual encounters have been in a club. Tell me about your non-consensual experiences.”

“No.” Blunt. Wide. Brick wall.

The hairs on my arms stick up. It’s not a danger signal. It’s an “oh please, no” signal.

“Were you the aggressor?”My voice is just above a whisper.

His fingers play the fiddle on the arm of the chair while his gaze narrows on me. “What do you think?”

Not a chance it was him.

“It’s not my job to speculate.”

His shoe hits the carpet, and he straightens. “In that particular situation, I would never be the aggressor.”

My heart beats as though it’s trying to escape. “I know that, and I’m sorry.”

He looks away for a while, and I let him. I don’t push him to expound on his experience. But I know it’s the root of all his issues with touch. How could it not be? When someone crosses your boundaries, and you have no recourse, it strips the foundation from deep inside you.

“I have to tell you something,” he says but doesn’t look at me. His gaze is caught on the darkening sky outside.

“Anything.” And I mean it. I want him to unload his burdens. Setting it down is a scary process. It’s painful, yet the relief when it’s over is unbelievable. I’ve seen years slide off people’s faces before my very eyes. I’ve seen the brightness return to their faces.

“I can’t see you anymore.”

My jaw unhinges. There’s no stopping it. Here I am, expecting a breakthrough. But no. It’s a breakup. It’s a slap in the face.

“If it’s because of what I said last time, I’m sorry.” I scoot forward to the edge of my seat. My hands are flailing. “I shouldn’t have said that. If I made you uncomfortable, I?—”

“Did you mean it?” His eyes narrow on me. Somehow, they’re more open than I’ve ever seen them. Not that I’ve seen them all that much.

I contemplate lying, but I can’t. “Yes.”

“Then I’m glad you said it.” He gives me a smile that isn’t a smile at all. It’s sad and sweet.

“Then why are you stopping therapy?” My pitch is high and a little desperate, if I’m honest.

He sits ramrod straight in the chair. His feet are on the ground, and his gaze is locked on me.

“Just a few minutes ago, you were trying to rationalize how many sex clubs there are in the city, how many millions of people are in this city, and of them, how many are into kink.”

I blink, not understanding where this is going. Not understanding how he knew that. Then again, he’s a shrewd businessman. He’s good at reading people.

“I’ve paid a hefty sum to my club of choice for three years now. Usually, I would go once a month to take the edge off. In the beginning, it was a quick in and out. Eventually, I learned to use implements to ensure my partner got at least one orgasm before I took mine.”

I nod, encouraging him to continue.

“About a year and a half ago, I tried a new partner. Suddenly, everything was easier, smoother, more enjoyable. Then slowly, I became addicted to her orgasms. One wasn’t enough. Two. Three. Six. There were never enough because each one took me further away from that bad place. The horrific memories. Each beautiful release renewed my hope that one day, the good would overshadow the bad.”

“Positive association.”

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