Page 66 of Deep In Love
“I really hope that’s nicer than ‘witch.’”
He steals my tease with a kiss, a grin blooming against my lips. Then his hands roam, exploring the planes of my skin, pausing when he reaches a scar. He never stops kissing me, but on every section of battered flesh, he makes a second pass.
Mateo stops on my surgical scar, the one that cuts down from my mid-abdomen to my belly button. He lifts to offer a questioning look.
“Spleen removal.”
He’s quiet, and it makes me nervous, until he says, “Useless organ anyway. Who needs it?”
The comment is unexpected, and my head tips back in laughter. I never thought about it that way. My hands fumble with my bra clasp, and when the tension releases, a relieved sigh escapes. The straps slide off my shoulders, and Mateo’s laugh is deep and throaty.
“This thing is a torture device.”
“You’ll find no protest from me if you never wear one ever again,” he says, the corner of his mouth ticking up.
“Is that so?”
He hums, lowering to take my breast into his mouth. He circles my nipple with his tongue, and I reel from the sensation, from how my head clouds with pleasure.
He moves lower, trailing down my abdomen, and I jerk when he reaches the band of my shorts and tugs on the tie. Reality crashes down, my muscles locking and my breath quickening.
No. No. No.
This is not supposed to happen. Not now. The tips of my fingers prick with tingles, my breasts heaving as I stare at Mateo with scared eyes, because that’s what I am: utterly terrified.
The adrenaline pumping through my blood is gone. Discomfort knots beneath my diaphragm, and I scramble upright to cover myself. Every gulp of air feels like a knife tearing apart my vocal chords.
Mateo rises, alarmed, and I curl in on myself, pulling my knees tightly to my chest.
I was fine—excited, even—for what was about to happen. No apparent trigger to the panic attack, but my body trembles.
It’s been months since the last one. Early spring brought a torrential downpour on my drive home from the lab. I managed to pull into a grocery store parking lot before the panic attack took over entirely, but I knew the rain was the trigger.
When I calmed down enough to call Amy, she rushed to pick me up. I never was able to tell her what happened.
“Charlie.” Mateo stands at the end of the bed, a worried tone lacing my name.
I don’t want the panic attacks and nightmares or the fear when my scars show. But most of all, I don’t want him to see this side of who I am. The person who is broken and battered.
He reaches out, slowly enough for me to turn him away if I want, but I don’t. I let his hand fall on the top of my knee, let the warmth of his skin sink into the bitter chill of mine. He grabs his discarded shirt and slips it over my head, guiding my arms into the holes.
I’m so fucking embarrassed, but my throat is too raw to speak, so I sit in silence as he dresses me. I wouldn’t blame him if he broke this off tomorrow—decided this was more than he bargained for.
He’s witnessing the invisible scars I pretend don’t exist because it’s easier to live my life pretending I’m okay. And if no one sees the low moments, then I can keep up the facade.
“What helps?” he asks, and a fissure forms in my chest from the gentle concern lacing the question.
“I don’t know.”
I don’t know how to fix anything; I only know everything is broken.
Mateo reaches out, tipping my chin up. A flash of despair crosses his face, and for the life of me, I can’t understand why.
Is it because he realized this won’t work, or is the sadness actually pity for me?
The thought is sickening, but he holds my gaze and whispers, “Can I help?”
Three words. Simple, meaningless words on their own, but when he strings them together and whispers them with care, they meanmore.
