Page 74 of Queen Of WildCards

Heleaned forward and lifted one of his hands, hesitating to the left of my ear. "Watchingthe guys interact like normal humans makes me ache to feel the same, but nothing's ever made the idea of physical touch appealing to me.Untilnow," he breathed, his fingers hesitantly tucking a stray strand of my hair behind my ear.

"Whatmade you change your mind?"Iwhispered, afraid to speak too loud, lestIspook him, like a skittish horse.

"Who," he corrected, his smile softening. "Andit was you."

Hisfingers lifted to parted lips, andInearly whined asIwatched them ghost over them, then move outward and ghost over mine. "Whenyou kissed me, those memories tainted a moment that was otherwise arrestingly beautiful.Idon't want anything from my past to taint you.That'swhyIpushed you away."

Inodded at his explanation, so many things falling into place now thatIknew the context. "Iwas never mad at you for that.Ijust figured you were busy."

"Iwas, but not so busy you never saw me.Thatwas entirely by design."

Iwanted to steer this conversation away from the harsh reality he'd revealed to me.Sure,I'dheard things that ranked up there from plenty of clients, but it felt different when you were sitting in front of a man who'd just bared his soul to you, who you achingly wanted to comfort but couldn't.

"Sometimes,Ican shove the itch down whenItouch you;Ican ignore the crawling under my skin at the action of touching someone.Butit always claws itself free eventually."

PTSDwas a fickle bitch, and there were many techniques out there that people used to manage it, but there was no cure-all.Everyperson was different.Sothere was no guarantee anything we tried would work.Itwas like shooting blanks in the dark unless he wanted to medicate, and something told me the closest these assholes got to medicating themselves was an illegally procured bag of hydros when someone got shot.

"Thereare some things we can try if you're up for it, butIcan't promise they'll work—"

Hegrabbed my hands and squeezed them damn near to breaking in his eagerness. "I'lltry it all.Wheredo we start?"

* * *

Wespentthe next few hours testing different techniques, alternating between pressure points and a gentle brush against his arm or disassociation and a hand-hold, but nothing seemed to work.Iwould have long since given up if it weren't for the distraught look in his eyes every time his skin started to crawl with the familiar feeling of irritation and anxiety whenItouched him or he touched me.

Hell,Iwas beginning to think maybe this was outside of my purview.ThatIwasn't the therapistIthoughtIwas—one more thing to add to my growing list of insecurities.

Butthen, the bastard had a breakthrough and surprised the hell out of me.

Hehad his phone in his hand and was staring intently at the screen, his lips curled in a tentative smile. "Sayshere we can try combining exposure therapy with cognitive re-training therapy.Thatthe combination of therapies might help work through my triggers."

Iloved that he was being open and responsive to this, to me.Thathe was talking more in these last few hours than the entire timeI'dbeen stuck with them.Hell,I'dtry anything he wanted to at this point. "Hitme with it, pal."

"Soit says here, you can retrain your brain to recognize the negative things you associate with the trigger action, aka touch, and teach yourself to become desensitized to the actual act through repetitive exposure."

Iarched a brow ironically. "Soyou want to get naked?Repeatedly?"

Thefirst hint of that devil-may-care smile on a much youngerJonahin one ofJoker'spictures flitted across his lips and nearly had me swooning like a woman in one of those period movies. "Somethingtells me getting naked with my therapist is sort of taboo,Mal."

Mal.Twohours in, and this man already had a nickname for me.

Iwas a goner, ifIwasn't already—completely, wholly, utterly.

Ireached out and swatted his chest playfully. "You'rethe one who said you needed to desensitize yourself with repeated exposure.Iwas just clarifying."Ipretended to pick my nails, looking away from him for a moment. "Besides,I'mnotreallyyour therapist.Soit wouldn't be taboo, per se."

Hewas suddenly crowding me against the wall, his arms caging me in, his hands pressed against the drywall, his face looming over mine from above as he stared down into my eyes. "Shame, that.IfindI'mrather fond of the idea of an illicit yet taboo relationship with my not-therapist.

Mysmiles came easier around him, as did my laughter now.Beingaround the enigma that wasBlackJackhad always been easy, but now, instead of the silence he provided, it was the half smiles and pleased laughter that wrapped around me.

Aman willing to be healed was always one of my greatest weaknesses, after all.

* * *

Icrashedin his room that night, though halfway through the night, he abandoned the bed to wander around the warehouse.Aftera ten-minute absence,Idecided to wander out to the couch, still wearing nothing but his shirt and a pair of underwear that proudly proclaimedIwasthe queen.

Ipassed out there and didn't wake back up until he came searching for me, picked me up, and wandered back to his room.

Almostlike he didn't want to be alone in there.

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