Page 32 of Branded
Believe in us.
Let me in, honey.
I had.
Three times.
With three men, who’d pursued me with a sort of dogged challenge, as though my shyness were a tactic to draw them in. My anxiety a tool to attract them. Playing hard to get when really, the words just wouldn’t come.
They’d played the long game.
Once in high school, and I’d ended up having a panic attack when I’d lost my virginity.
Once three years later, in college, my therapist encouraged me to broaden my horizons, and I’d made it through the sex without panicking, but that not panicking was the best thing I could say about the entire experience.
And, eight months before, when a man had approached me at a restaurant and asked me out, I’d accepted, thinking that I’d read enough romance novels, bought and practiced with enough toys, masturbated enough times that I would be comfortable knowing how to enjoy the process…and…it had been fine.
Fine enough that we’d gone on a couple of dates, and I’d told him a little about me. Fine enough even though I’d never gotten off—for the record—though I thought that perhaps I’d done a decent job of pretending I had.
But then I’d had a moment. A moment where my anxiety had gotten the better of me, after a bad day at work, after a phone call from my father, and though I’d gotten that gripping panic under control relatively quickly, using my techniques from my therapist, he’d still seen it.
He’d played it cool.
Told me it was no big deal.
And he’d fucked me that night.
Then he hadn’t called.
And I hadn’t cared.
Not really.
Okay, I’d cared because…
Dammit.
I’d tried to be myself—well, the best version of myself—and when a little bit of the real me had squeaked out on the date, he’d…
He’d been happy enough to use me as a vessel to get off, but the glimpse inside was too much.
I wasn’t enough.
I was a disappointment.
And…hell, I knew that I already liked Smitty too much, that if he looked inside and found me lacking…
That would break me…break me in a way that was permanent.
He dropped my other hand, stepped back. “I should leave you to your work.”
I should let him go.
But when he turned to leave, I found I couldn’t.
My arm shot forward, hand gripping his wrist. “No.”
Slowly, he spun back to face me.
