Page 38 of Look, Don't Touch

My eyes open wide, though I still see nothing.

I’ve never had this reaction to a scene. They’ve always transported me and comforted me in that strange way. Even the usual flogging and caning.

“Fuck you,” I slobber and mumble.

“Not yet? Huh. Had a bad day, sugar?” His hand runs up and down my spine. “Relax and let me help.”

Then I realize I’m fully tense. Every muscle and every brain cell is working overtime, and that’s never been the case in this room.

“You usually love this. Can’t get enough.” His fingers soothe my arms, massaging the strain from them. Or trying to. “The harder the better for you, usually.”

Because I am in charge. Because I am untouchable.

Even more so than Mr. Judge.

Usually.

Sure, people touch my skin, but they can’t graze my heart or even my interest.

But this fucking man, not the one now rubbing my thighs, but fucking Arlo Judge has me twisted.

Forget that he’s my patient. That’s bad enough, but this is worse. So much worse. He is the kind of guy who would give his whole heart to someone. He is the kind of guy who deserves their whole heart in return.

Despite whatever horrible thing that happened to him, he’s trying, truly trying to move forward with his life.

And I’m in-fucking-capable of giving my heart away. It’s not that I want to give my heart to Arlo Judge. I hardly know the man. It’s that I’ll never be available to a man like that. I’ve known this for far too long. Hell, I’ve strived for it, and now, for the first time, I’m questioning that goal.

The cane comes hard and fast, smacking against my thighs in four quick strikes. I bellow against the gag, not because it hurts. Because my go-to for scratching this itch is not working.

Any comfort I usually have in submitting, in the pain, in the severing of my mind from reality is lost. Every smack of my flesh only amplifies my worries, my anger, my deep-rooted sorrow.

He rears back once more. I hear the grunt of his extension and release the silk, unable to take any more.

“Sugar?” The strap and the gag go taut, and then fall from my mouth.

“Aria,” seeps from my lips.

He’s quiet for several seconds. “Never thought I’d see the day that you safe out.”

I don’t respond. My head sags. The tsunami rises inside me, pressing against my eyes. I clamp my sore mouth closed.

He walks away and quietly collects his things, and then retreats to the door. “I hope you get whatever is that’s going on with you sorted. I’d like to see you around after you do.”

Once more, I don’t speak. He’s used to it. The first word I ever said to the man is my safe word.

Finally, the door closes. My gates open. I’m flooded with hot tears and ragged sobs. So much that I feel as though I’m drowning. Wheezes wrench in and out of my chest. The bands hold me tight, giving me the oddest sense of comfort.

Things are changing. I’m somehow different than I was just a few weeks ago. It’s the most terrifying thing I’ve ever experienced and that’s saying something.

Today my release is not found in orgasms or pain. It is found in tears.

I’ve been to emergency therapy twice this week, talking through my sudden freak-out with Astor. Yes, I’m a psychologist, but a surgeon doesn’t operate on themselves. The same rules apply.

She thinks it’s some kind of glorious breakthrough. That my emotions over losing Matt prove that I make connections regardless of whether I want to or not. Astoroid Belt, as I’ve taken to calling her this week, thinks if I open myself up, my connections will be deeper and more fulfilling.

To that, I say, more devastating when they’re gone.

Logically, I know she’s right, but I’m not about to high-wire over an active volcano. Or open anything. Not even a present.

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