He approaches my mouth and kisses me gently, and I beg. “Please.”
He watches me intently for long seconds as he contemplates. He finally gives me his answer. He moves between my legs and enters me slowly as I moan. I’m in ecstasy. I’m relaxed beyond all measure, thanks in large part to good drugs and a full body kiss-down, and as he slowly penetrates and then withdraws from me, I can barely stand the sensation. Every stroke feels like a mounting orgasm ready to take over my body. Every withdrawal is a reminder I’m not quite ready yet. His thrusts remain slow, gentle, and completely controlled. He’s taking his time and focusing his eyes on mine with every movement of our bodies. His eyes are worried and watch for any sign of my pain, but I’m in heaven at the moment, and there is nothing he could do to my body I wouldn’t accept.
At this slow and even pace, it takes forever for either of us to reach climax, but that isn’t the point, and neither of us is in any rush. Our bodies move together slowly and gently, and it is far more about the intimacy of making love than anything else. This man, once so closed and cold to me, has become the most passionate relationship of my life. When eventually his speed quickens, and I start to meet his thrusts more aggressively, I find my orgasm. But he doesn’t, or won’t. He pulls from me as my body relaxes once again, never claiming his own release. But I want him to, so I reach for his hard, long shaft, and I stroke gently at first, and then vigorously as his panting and gasping quickens. I pull myself to my knees, and as he looks back in worry and hesitation, I mount his hips and push myself down the length of his cock. It’s obvious he’s terrified of hurting me, but his body is also sensitized and barely controlled. He watches me rise and push back down over him, and he sits to face me and pulls my legs to straddle him. He flexes his hips into my body as I roll mine to meet him, and it goes on endlessly in this way. Our movements are so gentle and slow it could last forever, but as his breath starts to halt and falter, I can tell his body is growing weary of the torment. I quicken and intensify the movement of my hips. When he eventually comes, he buries his head in my neck and clutches my body closely to him.
He leans to kiss my mouth, and as he pulls away, he asks me to talk. He wants to know everything I can tell him about the men that took me. My secret.
My body is exhausted, but I’m ready to talk to him. And I tell him the truth. I give him every detail. Some memories are filled with tears and sadness; others are filled with anger and horror. But I hold nothing back. He’s guessed everything there is to know, and now I just fill in the details. The tight muscles of his face and the intense furrow of his brow tell me it’s painful for him to listen to my hardest memories—watching my parents die, the many beatings since then, the events of this day, still so fresh and filled with terror and tears. I tell him, too, about Mr. Grayson’s involvement in their activities, and at this information, his jaw tenses and clenches, and he is fighting his own rage, powerfully stifling it. I don’t know how to fix this mess I’m in, but at least the secret is out now. For whatever that means, it at least gives me a sense of relief.
After long hours of talking, my medicine is fading, and when Derek returns with a couple of Vicodin, I wash them down with a glass of water. I’m anxious for the medicine to work, as the burning and scalding pain of my injury is building with every passing minute. He must sense this because he pulls me into his arms and lets me be silent as the pain makes my feet fidget and my body tense. But within a short time, the numbness takes over again, and my eyes become groggy and heavy.
As I drift off, I speak the words I so desperately wanted to tell him in my nightmares earlier. “I love you, Derek.”
He says nothing at all. His body is tense, and were I sober enough to think straight, I’m sure I’d be horribly wounded at his silence. I am wounded, but sleep is approaching fast, and I won’t be able to stave it off much longer. When I finally give in to it and feel it carrying me away, I hear his breath escape in a deep sigh. His lips brush a gentle kiss on my forehead, and my sinking mind drifts away in confusion, and a touch of heartbreak.
Chapter 25
He’s yelling. He’s angry. “The hell she will! I’m her manager, and there is no way in hell she will be going anywhere near the floor. No, you listen! You stay the fuck away from her, or I will fucking kill you! Yeah? Well, Morgan can’t be my problem anymore. So do what you’re going to do. Fuck you!”
I’m watching him as he paces in his kitchen, yelling into the phone. He looks terrifying. He looks insane, as though he’s about to lose control. But when he disconnects the call and catches me watching him with my mouth gaping, his face falls. His eyes, usually so commanding and controlled, are defeated, and as I watch, his gaze drops from me, and his eyes go dead.
He refuses to look at me, and as he grabs his keys from the dining room table, he mutters, without meeting my eyes, “Don’t worry about it. Just stay here.” As I try to stop him, he turns back to me once. His body is tense, his throat is tight, and his words are strangled as they come out. My God, he’s in pain. “I can’t do this with you, Ashton. Just, please stay here. I’m sorry.” I watch his face as it falls in anguish. He leaves without ever looking back at me.
My mouth is still slack and hanging open, staring at the door where he just exited. I’m stunned and hurt at his behavior toward me. This is nothing of the man that spent the evening with me the night before. I remember the words I spoke to him before I fell asleep, and I worry about the words he didn’t say in return. I feel foolish. More than foolish. He obviously cares nothing for me at all, but my heart tells me that’s not true. I know he cares. But why would he just leave like that? He didn’t touch me; he didn’t kiss me; hell, he couldn’t even look at me.
I move to the bathroom, fighting back the tears as I go. My body is sore, my heart is hurt, and I want nothing more than to hear Derek walk back through the door. Where was he going? Who is Morgan, and what does Morgan have to do with Mr. Grayson? I have more questions than I know what to do with, and no way to know when I’ll get the chance to ask. Derek feels so far away, and yet I have no idea why. His eyes were so incredibly distant, and the way he left me staring after him, without ever looking at me or touching me, has left a dark, ominous cloud hanging over my mood.
I approach the sink and pull the bandage from my side. The skin is bubbled, red, and grotesque. It looks melted, and, in many places, is gaping open. The sight of my mutilated skin explains the pain perfectly. I look horrid. The patch of affected skin is fairly small, about the size of a half dollar, but not the least bit symmetrical. And I can see easily where the liquid ran down my side before it was wiped away. This drip line is red and irritated, but not melted and oozing. I shudder at the sight as I grab a washrag and start gingerly trying to clean the wound. Trying, in fact, to shut out every ugly, negative feeling that vies for a spot in my mind.
Liz walks in moments later. My eyes are teared over as I fight the pain that cleaning the wound is causing me. She is carrying clean gauze and my medication. She instantly starts helping me, taking the washrag from me. After she’s gone over the skin with warm water and soap, she gently dries the area, applies new antibiotic cream, and covers the area with new dressings. I’m struggling against tears that are as much for my sadness at Derek’s behavior as for the pain in my side, but the pain from the acid is incredible. It sears through my body with every touch. Liz hands me a couple of Vicodin and the antibiotic pills that Dr. Michaels left for me, and I wash them down quickly with a glass of water.