Page 163

We stare at each other, suspended in a strange vacuum where this man I think I hate feels more like a kindred soul than anyone ever did.

Perhaps the heart does remember. And if not my heart, my lady parts do. Or she is just one greedy pussy.

“This is so strange.” I swallow.

He licks his bottom lip, and the simple notion wipes out any thoughts.

“Do you want some privacy?” He breaks the silence that stretched for a lifetime.

I nod, and he averts his eyes away from me. He doesn’t move, doesn’t turn, doesn’t step out. He stays rooted in the doorway like a sentry.

And for some outlandish reason, I miss his confining gaze immediately.

After I clean myself, I stand up and shuffle to the sink. Our gazes lock once again in the mirror.

His eyes tell a tale of hurt and love.

My eyes try to understand his silent story.

But my mind is blank. It doesn’t catch up with the freight train of emotions and the raw need swirling through me.

“Can I stay tonight?”

Warmth floods my cheeks, and my heart races.

Corm chuckles. “Relax, I will just sit by your bed.”

If I thought having Corm helping me pee and then watching me sleep was awkward, I didn’t fully appreciate how useless my arm is when getting dressed.

While I sit on the bed, he slides my panties up my legs. His fingers graze my skin as he pulls them up my ankles to above my knees.

I’m indignant and aroused at the same time. More embarrassed. I think. By my helplessness, and by my reaction to his touch.

While he can’t push my panties any farther, his hands continue up my thighs. His touch sears through the flimsy fabric, and I stifle a moan.

He swallows, his gaze burning my skin.

I need to look away. I should stop him, but I don’t want to. I want him to trigger something in me, anything that would bring the memories back.

It’s not only about the two of us. It’s about my own identity. I didn’t know how two-plus months of a blackout could almost undo the rest of my life that I still remember.

I keep waiting for some revelation, and none is coming. The therapist told me to be patient, and I want to be, but as Corm slides his hands up my torso, I want him to do something to remind me.

To remind me of him.

Of me.

Of us.

Instead, he scoops me under my arms and lifts me to stand.

“You okay?” He checks, his voice rough as he squats and pulls my panties up.

I nod when he straightens as if I am okay. I’m not. I’m in pain. I’m confused. And I’m fucking horny.

“Did I love you?” I don’t know why I ask. What would either of the answers resolve?

He tenses for a beat, grinding his jaw. He takes my hands in his, not really holding it, just grazing my palms with his fingers.