Page 12 of Flog Me, Sir

Chapter Four

Garret

Itossed out the offer, dangling a carrot I hope she craved—even though the abuse of her childhood guaranteed she didn’t. She glanced beyond me, her focus flitting around the church’s interior as I dripped water all over the stone floor. While I’d thought to grab a towel, I hadn’t wasted a single second doing more than tucking it tight at my hips in my rush to keep her from leaving.

She’d lit out of the bathroom like a nervous little kitten, and all I could do was think about stopping her from disappearing from my life after slamming into it like a goddamn freight train, intent on derailing me from the path I’d been travelling with my man-whore ways.

She made me come in my damn boxers—

“I don’t fear the pain,” she finally said, bringing her attention back to me.

“Then what?” I wanted to step closer, wrap her in my arms, but her stance screamed fragile—approach and I’ll scamper beneath the closest bed.

She heaved a heavy sigh. “You said you liked me.”

“I do,” I confirmed without hesitation even though she hadn’t asked a question.

“Well, I like you, too. And your kiss. Your touch is...”

“What?’ I prompted when her words died off.

She swallowed, her focus flitting from one of my eyes to the other as though trying to read every thought in my head. “Addictive.”

The slight frown denting her brow, the pain in her eyes, tore at my heart. “I’m worried that I’ll end up like her.” Lissa swallowed. “My mother,” she whispered.

Her past, the emotions and fear clicked into place in my head. “She was an addict,” I said, thinking of my own sister, my empathy snapping into place.

“Is,” Lissa clarified.

“So is my sister.”

Her brow smoothed out, and the sexual connection I’d felt between us blossomed into something more.

Rather than explain how my preferred lifestyle wasn’t abuse, how enjoying sex, release, and the desire for it wasn’t an addictive sickness like our loved ones experienced, I held out my hand. I would be the friend she needed, the offered ear to help ease the burden of her past—at least, I hoped. “Want to sit and talk about it?”

She glanced at the bench alongside the wall, then the window by the front door. “I really ought to get back to work.”

“Mrs. Hummel sent you here,” I reminded her. “She sent me. Trust me when I say she doesn’t expect to see either of us for the rest of the day.”

A huff of quiet laughter escaped Lissa, her eyes losing all trace of being upset. “She doesn’t just expect—she hopes.”

I chuckled and beckoned her with my outstretched hand. “Come here.”

She hesitated briefly, but eventually took my hand.

Pushing aside my own wants and desires, I focused on helping, giving of myself as I always did. An endearing quality, some friends said, but I knew the truth behind my actions. My drive for the need to be good enough for love that wouldn’t leave me on the wayside directed the supposed selfless act of always being available.

I wasn’t worthy of unconditional love and acceptance, but I sure as fuck would offer what hadn’t been given to me as a child.

“You might not like me after you hear about my shit childhood,” Lissa warned while sitting on the bench beside me.

“I’ll probably like you even more because you’re going to tell me how you became such a strong, hard-working woman, one driven to perfection.”

One of her eyebrows arched. “Was Mrs. Hummel singing my praises again?”

I grinned and rubbed my thumb over the back of her hand that she’d allowed me to retain my hold on. “Perhaps.”

Lissa glanced away, her attention dropping to a loose thread on her black pants. “I don’t usually share the shit of my past—or much of anything, for that matter—but for some reason, I want you to know. To understand why this—” she waved her hand around the church “—isn’t for me.”

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