Abuse (20 page)

“There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle.”

— Albert Einstein

~~~

Renata Koreman

I’m officially blown away.

I have no idea what just happened.

Where has this guy in my arms come from? He has wide shoulders and narrow hips, set on a lean, muscular body. There’s strength and power in every line.

That wasn’t simply a sweet sexy ‘spark’ of chemistry we just shared—it was more like a raging forest fire. Some sort of blazing conflagration of pussy-melting, heart-stopping, erotic heat.

For a moment, I shut my eyes as a vivid sensual memory of him pounding inside of me fills my senses. Everything about him is hard as stone—particularly that punishing cock of his. Never in my life, have I experienced such savage need.

This sexy, potent man hadn’t even bothered to remove his clothes. Jeans, long sleeve shirt… he still has his cowboy boots on! Grant didn’t engage in foreplay—I wasn’t even kissed on the lips! Instead, the moment I gave him my agreement for sex, he’d thrown me across the bed. Then he fucked me fast and hard—harder than I’ve ever been fucked before.

Talk about rough sex. I’d be surprised if his thrusting hips didn't leave bruises. I’m sore, but not uncomfortable. It's more like achingly satisfied and satiated.

If any other man had done this, I’d consider him selfish, or perhaps just being a dominant who was using his submissive or slave.

With Grant? No way. Body and soul, I felt consumed by his intensity.

He’d
needed
me.

My racing heart begins to slow. Collapsed on top of me, Grant’s face and body are slack. Relaxed. Relieved. Released.

I lay here naked with a fully dressed man lying heavily upon me, the rasp of his breath hot against my neck and throat. I love the size and weight of him. I love the look and smell of him.

He’s deeply asleep, but I swear to God his cock is still thick and hard, twitching inside of me in the aftermath of his orgasm.

Grant Wilkinson.

Even his name is beautiful. Lazily stroking his back and shoulder with one arm, I cherish this enigmatic man at my breast. His touch had been firm and implacable, while raw lust had flared in his hooded gaze. My body responded, but I did little or nothing. Overwhelmed by his ferocious need, I simply held on, riding the storm.

He’s such a mystery. How did he get those scars? And why won’t he kiss me?

His body’s totally covered with his clothes, but he’s lost a few buttons. I did that—not intentionally. I’m pretty sure I was trying to get closer by clawing at his shirt. The thing is, now I can see just the hint of a colorful tattoo at the top of his shoulder, near his neck.

What kind of design does he have under there? Is it a picture, printed words or both? I wish I could see it—it might give me a glimpse… some insight into his soul. What would a troubled man like him have inked upon his flesh?

Flesh. Mmm.

The word triggers a vivid memory of Grant above me, his flesh driving deep and his body hard against mine. I shut my eyes once more as my pussy involuntarily clenches around him. Even unconscious, the man’s cock remains rigid, still pulsing with heat inside of me.

That wasn’t sex.

Grant had a need for release, yes, but what we just did together was far beyond need. It was consummation. Completion. Acceptance. Maybe even love.

Fondly, I stroke my hand down his muscular back. I don’t want him to leave. I want to spend all day with him—laughing, talking and making love. I long to know everything about this incredibly passionate man.

There’s so much I don’t understand about him and what happened between us. Grant has horrible secrets. André told me he’d been sexually abused by a man. My heart breaks to think of how his innocent trust was betrayed.

I know so little and I want to know more. Much more. Who was the bastard who hurt him? How old was he at the time? What were the circumstances and how did it end?

I hope Grant will be comfortable sharing his story with me.

Yesterday, I spent time in my safe place thinking about Grant and wondering how sexual abuse influenced and shaped his life. My own childhood trauma affected me and continues to do so even now. It's been such a struggle.

Our situations are different, but I can’t help but feel a bond.

I had no idea he’d be so scarred—or so scared. I’d wanted to like him… but I’d never expected this level of connection. How can I feel this strongly toward him, especially so quickly?

My heart melted at first sight.

I felt shredded by his pain. I wanted to banish the sorrow and hurt in his eyes—eyes that have seen too much.

Have I ever met anyone as isolated and alone?

Grant expected someone else—that was obvious. He’d been so angry, too. Angry people usually frighten me, but not Grant. I immediately saw right through that defensive façade. This big strong man had been afraid.
Afraid of me!

Hiding one’s fear through anger is such a common human ploy.

When I saw him there—so vulnerable and uncertain—when I looked at him and touched his scars, I had the oddest impression.

I felt certain he’d been about to cry.

The way his hooded eyes drank me in and the way he almost seemed to worship me—I felt adored. Yet, I could recognize the sadness, loneliness and grief behind those intense, slate blue eyes. I could see it so clearly.

It was like looking at myself.

My throat aches as I remember the way he reacted when I caressed his wounds. Why had I done it? Some instinct compelled me. So much pain, so much sorrow… so much courage.

Scars or not, I did like his face. We’d shared something beautiful—an instant bond. I’m sure we
both
felt it. My eyes sting with the memory of that miraculous emotional connection.

I recall watching as he began to climax, I saw his face contort and his eyes squeeze tight. Then… in a wild and desperate plea or maybe more like a prayer, he’d said my name.

I felt ridiculously privileged to watch him come, and so honored. The way he called my name moved me deeply. I felt it like a jolt of pure happiness, right to my heart.

I know. Crazy, right?

It was just sex… but I swear to God it wasn’t—it was so much more. Now, if I could only figure it out. What the hell just happened?

Grant’s sexual release felt like absolution... and rapture. It was as if I’d been some sort of priestess granting forgiveness with love and acceptance.

I’ve acted as a sexual surrogate with two different men in the last two days. Both needed me. Both lacked finesse, each getting on top and hammering away. So alike, and yet so different.

Joshua Marks had been a virgin. My purpose had been to help him find a reason to date women. Despite his social disability, Joshua could never be considered to be damaged or broken. He’s healthy, happy and fulfilled in life.

This man was something else.

When I looked into Grant’s eyes I saw so much. Under his angry, invincible, tough guy exterior, I’d recognized a tortured soul. Somewhere inside of him is the confused and injured heart of a child—a child who’d suffered the agonizing pain of betrayal.

I’ve been with men that were far more sexually satisfying. Yet somehow, with Grant, I find myself more satisfied than I’ve ever been in my life.

Grant had needed me completely and utterly—mentally, emotionally and on a purely primitive level. I’ve never known anything like it. Intense joy surrounds me so powerfully, as if it’s a tangible aura.

I look at his lax body and I tingle with the memory of him. Something magical and important happened.

Now I just have to figure out what it was. Yet, holding this tormented man and giving him peace—it’s why I’m here. I’m caught by the wonder of it, this miraculous moment of life.

Grant’s body stiffens abruptly as he jerks to consciousness. He was only out for a couple minutes.

To my surprise, he rolls off me suddenly, his face averted. He gets up quickly and quietly, then strides into the bathroom without saying a word.

Huh
. Shy maybe? Embarrassed? He had to dispose of the condom. I guess that made him self-conscious?

I hear the toilet flush, the sink faucet turns on, then off. After that, it all goes quiet. At least five minutes pass.

“Grant? Are you OK?”

Another couple of minutes of silence and then to my complete astonishment, the door opens. “Gotta go,” he mumbles almost incoherently and takes off.

“G-G-Grant?” I call after him, falling into an uncertain stutter. He doesn’t answer and he doesn’t stop.

Shit. I hate it when I stutter.

Impulsively I jump up and run after him. I’m halfway through the lounge before I realize I’m naked. I quickly run back to my bedroom, throw my bathrobe on and run back out as fast as I can.

“André!” I call out, hoping for reinforcements, but in a place this size he must not hear me as he doesn’t reply.

“Gr-Gr- Grant, come back! D-D-Don’t go. Wait! Wh-wh-wh-what’s wrong?”

By the time I get to the penthouse elevator, the doors are just closing. Grant’s inside, I can see his boots.

“Wait!” I manage to yell without stuttering… but he’s already gone.

I’m panting loudly, but I’m not really out of breath. I’m breathing hard from panicked anxiety. My heart’s racing and my chest hurts. My thoughts are scattered—I’m overwhelmed by emotion and sensation.

I feel as though I’m going to die.

I get these attacks on occasion but I haven’t had one for a very long time.

If I don’t get on top of this—if I can’t break the cycle—I’ll continue to spiral out of control and end up a total wreck. Luckily, from experience, I recognize the symptoms. I know how to calm myself down before it gets worse.

My practiced response kicks in automatically.

With my hands on my chest, feeling myself inhale, I concentrate on relaxing my muscles and slowing my breathing.
I’m OK. I’m OK. I’m OK. I’m OK,
I begin my mental chant.

The words help me focus. I’m OK…
one,
I’m OK…
two,
I’m OK…
three...

I breathe through my nose and concentrate on my mantra. By the time I reach twenty, I know I’ve successfully held off a full blown panic attack.

I’m so grateful to have regained control.

But Grant is gone.

Holy hell, what just happened? I like him so much. How did I screw this up? For the life of me, I have no idea where I went wrong.

“The actions and emotional responses of others are not your responsibility. You cannot rescue people from themselves. This is for them to do.”

— André Chevalier

~~~

Renata Koreman

I find André sitting on the couch in his office, reading something on his tablet.

“André, quick,” I say, pleased to have gotten my stuttering and my breathing under control. “You gotta go find Grant! I’d go, but I have to put clothes on first. You’re dressed. If you’re fast, you should be able to catch him.”

“Oh? Why would I do this?”

“Because he’s getting away!”

“
Monsieur
Wilkinson is free to act as he wishes. He has broken no laws. In any case, I am not a policeman. I have no desire to stop him.”

“But there’s something wrong and we have to talk to him!”

One dark eyebrow arches with interest. “And yet he has chosen to leave. From this, I perceive he does not wish to stay and he does not wish to talk.”

“I must’ve done something wrong!” I wail, throwing my hands in the air, unable to hide my anguish. “What do you think I did? I’ve never had a client run off like this. I thought everything was going well!”

“Ma petite souris,”
he says studying me for a moment. “All of this passion is most becoming. Your eyes, they are very bright, and your face is flushed a most charming pink.” Smiling, he pats the couch beside him. “
Se il vous plait.
Sit here beside me.”

“But we have to get Grant!”

He sighs and waves a long-fingered hand. “You are, of course, free to do as you wish.”

He gives me a one shouldered shrug, crosses an elegant leg and resumes reading his tablet. I glance down. He’s reading
“Le Monde”
the French newspaper.

Frustrated, I run back to my bedroom. My hair is a disaster because I didn’t dry it after getting out of the shower. It’s mostly dry now, but tangled. I quickly brush it out and twist it into a bun on top of my head.

I glance at a white porcelain 18
th
century clock sitting on the bedside table. A little boy is walking with a wolfhound, I think. The dog’s almost taller than he is. I’ve always loved that clock.

It’s been exactly twenty-nine minutes since I first got out of the shower. How could so much have happened in so short a time?

I slide into my summery, off the shoulder, dark blue ruffle dress. The tiered elastane fabric is light and breezy and always looks great. Slipping on my heels, I stride back toward my mentor.

As I walk, I’m recalling everything Grant and I did together, trying to figure out where I went wrong. I can’t understand why André isn’t worried. Why is he so complacent when an important client has disappeared without even a good bye?

When I return to André’s study, he’s still calmly reading. I’ve had time to think about it though, so I sit down beside him.

“You’re right, André,” I say. “I could never catch up to Grant by now. But you have his phone number, right? Don’t you think we should call him? Just to make sure he’s OK?”

“No.”

“Please André, can’t I phone him?”

“It is doubtful he will answer. It is clear to me he does not wish to speak to us.”

“Pretty please?”

I’m nagging now but I can’t help it. I need to figure out what happened to Grant. I’ll apologize if I did something that upset him.

With an unexpected trace of exasperation, André takes out his phone and scrolls down to Grant’s number. Muttering under his breath, “A woman must do as a woman must do,” he hands me his cell phone.

I grab it anxiously and listen to it ring. Grant doesn’t pick up. After a few rings, it switches to voicemail.

I clear my throat. “Grant, it’s Renata.” A long moment passes. I want to tell him to come back. I want to say how much I enjoyed holding him, how he affected me, and how my heart’s breaking because he ran away.

Instead, a sudden spike of ice-cold rationality hits my brain.

I hear André’s voice in my mind. So many times André’s admonished me, whenever my boundaries waver and I lose track of my role.
“You are a counselor! Remember who you are. Remember why you are here.”

What the hell am I doing? Grant is a client. I’m a professional. What would be the right thing for me to say to him?

“I enjoyed meeting you very much, and would appreciate you returning my call,” I finally say.

Andre sets his tablet down on the end table. While his face is composed I register a combination of pride and amusement in his eyes.

“
Ma petite,
I feared what you might have said to him.
Oui, oui,
I admit I doubted you, but you did not dishearten me. Now, cease all of these most wonderfully passionate reactions, if you please. Nothing needs to be done at this moment, except for you to compose yourself further. All is well. If you wish, tell me what happened after I left you both alone in the bedroom.”

I sit beside him, rest back on the couch and relate recent events. I particularly mention the strange sense of connection I had with Grant, and how he seemed so sad and vulnerable. I tell André I honestly thought at one point he looked as if he would cry.

“Bon! Bon! Très bon
,” he says, sitting up and leaning toward me. “Now you speak of things that interest me greatly. Continue, if you please.”

I go into detail, telling him everything Grant and I said and did. When it comes down to it, very few words were spoken—yet even without them, an inexplicable ocean of connection and communication occurred between us.

“I really ‘got’ him, André. I felt as if we formed a bond.”

Unable to sit still, I stand up once more and begin to pace anxiously. “As far as I could tell, everything was perfect. I know something happened. I don’t know what, but… something did. It was wonderful. Magical. And I’m not talking about sex. You’re right. He really does need me. He needs someone, that’s for sure. He looks so sad. I’ve never met a more lost and lonely man.”

“
Bravo!
And now you speak like the observant and intelligent woman you are.”

I stop and face him. “What do you think I did wrong?”

His eyes widen in quizzical surprise. “
Did
you do something wrong?”

“I must have! He ran away! Why did Grant leave like that?”

Supremely disinterested by my question, André shrugs. “How should I know unless he tells us? Me? I am very clever, and yet I find with all my observational skills, I am not psychic.”

I exhale in a deep sigh and can’t help but feel bummed out.

I would’ve felt much worse if I had any idea of how pissed off André was at me.