Page 6 of Hold Me for Now

T’s head bobs in a nod. His gaze grows distant, wistful. “I know what people think of me, that I’m pathetic, that I must not have had options, but that’s not it. I chose this. I have this belief that there’s someone special out there for everyone. True love—two people designed just for each other. I imagine when they find each other, everything flows. It fits, clicks, like a key sliding into a lock.”

Warmth unfurls in my chest at the idea that there’s a perfect someone out there waiting for me. It’s a total fantasy, of course, but, God, do I wish it were true. “I like that,” I tell T, meaning it. I offer him a small, genuine smile. “I hope you can get the key to your lock back, that things work out between you.”

Something dark flits across his expression, gone before I can name it. He gives me the ghost of a smile and says, “Thanks.”

“Focus, please. We’re getting off track,” says the disembodied voice of Dr. D.

T and I both jump at the sound. I’d almost forgotten we weren’t alone. A flash of irritation tenses my muscles. Doesn’t he understand we need this? A chance to connect emotionally before we connect physically. At leastIneed it.

“Sorry,” T says to the speaker high on the wall. He moves toward me, more determined now. “Let’s try again. Promise I won’t freak out this time.”

Now that I know what a good kisser he is, my pulse skips with anticipation as I rise up on my toes and wind my arms around his neck. I’m about to say something witty or comforting or I don’t know what because T doesn’t give me a chance. His lips crash into me. No hesitation this time. No careful testing of the waters. His tongue sweeps against mine, demanding, devouring, kissing the hell out of me.

A whimper escapes me, raw and feral.

Andfuck, that does something to him.

His fingers twist in my hair, tightening. His lean, solid frame presses into me, and now I feel his heat, his urgency, the way his body reacts like it’s spiraling out of control.

This isn’t just a kiss.

It’s not him doing it to prove he can or because it’s what’s expected.

This isneed.

Pure, raw,hunger.

We break apart, breathless. I lick my lips, dazed. Because I can’t help myself, I tease, “Dang! You were holding back on me the first time, T.”

“Fuck, yeah, I was.” His voice is rough and low, gravel sliding over silk. Then he’s back, ravaging me with his tongue, and, holy shit, it’shot.

“Touch her breast, the left one,” says Dr. D.

So engrossed in what we’re doing, we barely flinch at the intrusion. T follows the instructions immediately. His hand comes up to cup and knead my breast over my shirt. He locates my peaked nipple through the thin fabric of my sheer blouse and black bra and runs his fingers over it. I moan into his mouth. An ache pulses between my legs.

My hands find the hem of his shirt and slip beneath it. His abs are hard, well-defined. I wonder if he works out or just works outside. Something that involves manual labor. Construction maybe? I want to ask, to know more about him, but remind myself that’s not why we’re here. This isn’t about making a love connection. It’s about making me come during sex.

Focus,I tell myself.Eyes on the prize.

T mimics me, sliding his hand under my shirt. Rough fingers trace my ribs as he glides his palm along my skin. He reaches around my back and, after a minute of fumbling, unclasps my bra. It gapes loose on my chest, which allows him to touch my breast by shoving his hand under the cup. Heeding Dr. Desire’s advice, he goes for my left breast first. His hand is so big, he easily covers my entire breast, encasing it with his warmth. He’s not gentle, which I like. T pinches my nipple, rubs it with the pad of his thumb, and somehow it feels like he’s also touching me down there, between my legs.

I break off our kiss to lick down his neck while my hands explore under his shirt, tracing the contours of his muscles, which shift as his breath catches, then speeds. Wanting better access, I shove his shirt up. With a petulant scowl, I demand, “Off! Take it off!”

He chuckles, and, for the first time, I see him truly smile. It’s like a burst of sunlight breaking through storm clouds—warm, effortless, charming. His whole face transforms, eyes crinkling at the corners, tension melting away. I go still, caught off guard by the sight. This feels like the real T. The version of him not weighed down by anxiety, guilt, or doubt. I can see how he belongs in this light, at ease in a world I can never seem to reach.

I’mnot like that. I carry the weight of reality like a second skin, unable to ignore the world’s sharp edges, its subtle cruelties. Darkness clings to me, a familiar presence I’ve learned to live with. Maybe that’s why I want this so badly—to connect with someone else, to be truly intimate. If I can break this barrier and experience pleasure the way I’m supposed to, maybe it will finally chase my shadows away.

T bends down, bringing his face to mine. “Ladies first,” he says with a twinkle in his eyes. He reaches for the bottom of my shirt and catches it between his fingers. I raise my hands over my head so he can pull it off, which he does in one smooth motion. My bra comes with it so now I’m naked from the waist up. The air in the room has a sharp chill to it, which raises goosebumps along my arms. The cold is a reality check, making me acutely aware that I’m the only half-naked person in the room. A sudden wave of self-consciousness washes over me, and I instinctively cross my arms over my chest, shielding myself.

T lifts a brow, his gaze catching the movement.

“I’m just cold,” I say, the excuse feeble.

“Sure,” he replies easily, but the way his eyes narrow, how he holds me in his stare, makes me feel more exposed than ever. There’s something unspoken between us. Me, silently pleading for understanding, and him seeing straight through me.

Without a word, he reaches for the hem of his shirt and pulls it over his head. “There,” he says, his voice steady. He goes straight to the heart of my unease. “Now we’re even.”

Relief floods through me. He understood. He didn’t call me out on my vulnerability. Instead, he met it with his own. I want to say thanks, but I’m too busy scanning his perfect six-pack, his muscular shoulders, the scattering of gold-dusted hair over his chest and stomach that leads down like an arrow pointing to his crotch. My gaze snags on that area, noting the sizable bulge that strains the zipper of his jeans.

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