Page 53 of Space Oddities

Ian sighs, dropping back on the bed. “I was doing my homework.”

I stare at him, hoping he’ll start making sense.

“The therapist, Dr. Brown?”

I nod.

“She told me to try exposure therapy. Thought it might help.”

I arch an eyebrow. “I think we can safely say that it didn’t.”

That gets a laugh out of him, even if it sounds exasperated. “I think it might be my fault though. I was supposed to start off small. Like close the door in the bathroom where there are windows. Or go into a windowless room but leave the door open.”

“So why did you start with a closet?”

He drapes an arm over his eyes, probably trying to hide his embarrassment. “I thought if I skipped the easy part I could get over this faster.” His words are mumbled, and I work hard not to laugh. He’s just so cute.

I lie next to him, curling up to his side. “Besides the homework, how did the appointment go?”

“Fine.” His drops his hand to his side, blinking up at the ceiling. “She thinks my claustrophobia might be a learned behavior. A combination of watching my mother slowly being trapped in her life and me feeling the same in mine.” He snorts. “My dad’s fault. No surprise there.” Groaning, he rolls his eyes. “Jesus, listen to me. I sound like a tormented teenager blaming my parents for shit.” He tilts his chin down, grinning at me. “Real attractive, huh?”

“Yes.” I rise up on my elbow, eyes never leaving his. “Very.”

He doesn’t have time to question my sudden seriousness because I’m kissing him. Kissing him for being so open with me, for being so caring and willing to work through his past and present fears. For being so gosh darn attractive.

We kiss for hours, or maybe minutes, I’m not sure. Then an idea forms.

I straddle him, never breaking the kiss, taking one of his hands in each of mine, pulling him to his feet before pivoting and pushing him into the closet. Before he can react, I attack him with my mouth again.

Blindly reaching out, I find the closet light and flick it on, the overhead florescent lighting as unflattering and unromantic as you can get, but honestly, who gives a fig? I make sure to leave the door open.

“Trish,” he says against my lips. “What are you—”

I reach down his pants, grasping his cock, smiling when Ian’s head drops back on a groan. Up and down I pump him, watching his breath come out in pants. From desire, not panic. Soon his hips are moving with the rhythm of my hand, lost in sensation.

My hands pull wildly at his belt, the metal of his buckle clunking as I struggle to open it. Ian reaches down to help, but I slap his hands away. While Ian’s fear is clouded by lust,I’mthe one about to have a panic attack. I need this. I need him. I need to do this for him.

Belt pulled free, I wrench open his expensive-feeling suit pants, the waistband of his Calvin Klein boxer briefs barely containing his erection.

Of course he’s wearing Calvin Klein. How very Captain American of him.

I drop down to the floor along with his pants. A careful downward tug on his Calvins and he’s free. My mouth opens wide to take him in.

“Fuuuuuck.”

I smile, or smile as best I can with him in my mouth. He sounds so very un-Ian-like all worked up like this.

Good, he’s too worked up to think about the small space he’s in. I rub my thighs together, trying to ignore how worked up I am.

I bob deep, trying to get to the base but choking slightly in my determination.

“Careful, sweetheart.” Large hands cradle my jaw, his voice soothing. Worried. “Careful.”

Dang it. I don’t want him thinking about anything except how thisfeels.

I bob again, flaring my nostrils, breathing deeply through my nose until I reach the base, pulling back and dragging my tongue under the underside of his cock.

His hands slam against the open doorway, his hips surging slightly forward, as if chasing my mouth.

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