Page 58 of A False Start
“Living with shame is different from living with trauma. You? You come back stronger every time.” I glance up at him shyly, and he gently brushes my hair back, tucking it behind my ear. “Like a wildflower.” His smile is soft as he gazes down at me like he’s looking at something more precious than words. “Me?” The strands of my hair move through his fingers as he combs his hand down their length. “I’m weak.”
His words are a punch to the gut. I hate that he sees himself as weak. If he’s weak, then why do I feel so safe with him?
I pull the blanket loose from around my shoulders and wrap it around Griffin instead, tugging him against me as I reach up and push the loose locks of hair off his face. I trace the tips of my fingers over the lines in his forehead and trail them down over his temple until I hit the coarse hair of his beard.
The one I dream about between my thighs.
He doesn’t make a move to stop me. It’s like we’ve called some sort of truce between each other for the moment. One where we spill our hearts’ darkest secrets to each other and allow soul-warming touches to guide us back into the light.
The tips of our noses graze. This is dangerous territory, and we both know it.
“I don’t think that trauma and shame are so different, Griffin.” His dark eyes glow in the fading light as the crickets chirp around us. “One happens to a person, and the other is a choice, a feeling. The real difference between us is that I don’t pity you.Youpity you.”
I’m pretty sure I’ve shocked him into silence. The look he’s giving me is so intense my knees threaten to give out and drop me right at his feet. An altar to worship at.
Instead, I press a gentle kiss just beside his mouth, the roughness of his beard against my lips the cruelest sort of tease. And then, before I can say or do anything else embarrassing, I drop my eyes, pull the blanket tighter around him, and make my way back down the path to my tent.
* * *
The first thingI do once I’ve zipped that flimsy divider shut is pull out my journal. Some people go to confession. Me? I spill that shit on the pages of this notebook.
I hear Griffin’s heavy footfalls as he approaches the tents, Tripod merrily hopping around with him. They pause outside. He set our tents up right beside each other, just around the side of the house near the fire that’s still burning low and throwing enough light to make my orange tent look like it’s glowing.
My heart jumps in my chest. He’s been standing still out there for way too long. I exhale loudly when I hear the zipper on the tent beside me hum.
The worst part? I wanted him to charge in here. To give the fuck up on depriving us of each other.
But I don’t know what I have to give. I’m not sure I can keep sex and feelings separate where he’s concerned. I’m not sure I want to. And that terrifies me.
I write that down, listening to the pen scratch across the paper, a sound that’s almost hypnotic for me. Therapeutic, really. I suppose that was the whole point of this exercise when my therapist suggested it to me.
I scribble down every thought and feeling until the day’s light is so far gone I can’t clearly see the strokes of my pen anymore. Then I set my notebook down beside me and slip into the simple leggings and oversized crewneck I brought as pajamas, aiming less for aesthetic than comfort, but I’m suddenly wishing I had something pretty to wear.
My body hums, knowing Griffin is in the tent a few feet away. The air between us always holds a charge, and the thin layers of nylon between us do nothing to negate that. It seems more like they might melt away under the heat of our connection rather than keep us apart.
The shields here are too flimsy, and I’m not strong enough to keep my own walls standing. Tonight, I’mtired.
Hidden betweenthe layers of my sleeping bag, I let a shaky hand travel down, slipping underneath the wide elastic waistband of the black leggings. My finger trails through the wetness at the apex of my thighs.
Only someone as fucked up as me would go from crying on a man’s chest to getting wet at the mere knowledge he’s sleeping a few feet away.
I swipe again, circling my clit, feeling it swell as I imagine a hand that isn’t my own. I press one finger into myself and clamp down around it, wishing it were thicker, more calloused. And then pretending it is.
I pump in once. Twice. Add a second finger as I reach up under the sweatshirt and pinch one aching nipple.
My head tips back on the pillow that smells of laundry detergent andhim.And I moan. Surrounded by his scent, an image forms of his disheveled hair between my thighs, and I play with my body until I’m panting, completely lost to the sensations and bunching of nerves under my skin.
If I was cold before, I’m certainly not now. I’m fucking burning.
And I’m so deep in my head that I only absently hear the zipper of my tent. My reaction time is slow, so by the time I drag open lust-heavy eyelids, I find the hulking silhouette of Griffin Sinclaire on his knees, taking up almost the entire entryway of the small tent, lit only by the dying embers behind us.
“Are you trying to make me lose it?” He looks downright primal—broad shoulders and heaving chest, hands shaking with how tightly he grasps the tent flaps.
I don’t know what I’m thinking. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’m not thinking. All I know is that I’mtired.Tired of being scared, and tired of pretending that he isn’t the most real thing I’ve ever had.
My hands move again. I hold his gaze, cupping my heavy breast as I grind my hips up onto my fingers again.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Nadia.” He sounds out of breath. He’s eerily still, muscles bunched tight, like he’s ready to pounce. And I just don’t give a fuck about guarding myself against him right now.
